,  '^ 


\: 


-%, 


THE 


POETICAL   ^ORKS 


OF 


ALFRED     TENNYSON, 


POET     LAUREATl 


COMPLETE     EDITION, 
WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


>  >  >  J  J 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1872. 


i'S.^ 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


/g72 

CONTENTS.  MP)  I  fj 


Poems  (Published  1830):  — 


V  .To  the  Queen 
iciaribel      .     . 


Lilian .     .       2 

Isabel .     .       2 

iMariana 3 

To • 4 

Madeline .    .      4 

Song.  —  The  Owl 5 

Second  Song 5 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 5 

Ode  to  Memory 7 

Song 8 

Adeline 9 

A  Character 9 

The  Poet ' 

The  Poet's  Mind 

The  Sea-Fairies 

The  Deserted  House 

The  Dying  Swan 

A  Dirge 

Love  and  Death 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 

Circumstance 

The  Merman 

The  Mermaid 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K 


Poems  (Published  1832):  — 

l/The  Lady  of  Shalott    . 

Mariana  in  the  South  . 

Eleanore 

The  Miller's  Daughter 


Ml0i;^9G 


4 


CONTENTS. 

Fatima 25 

♦CEnone 25 

The  Sisters 30 

To , 30 

^  The  Palace  of  Art 30 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 35 

The  May  Queen 36 

New- Year's  Eve 37 

Conclusion 38 

The  Lotos-Eaters 39 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 42 

Margaret 47 

The  Blackbird 48 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year  • 48 

To  J.  S 49 

"  You  ask  me  why,  tho' ill  at  ease  " 50 

"  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights  " 50 

"  Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought  " 51 

The  Goose 52 

English  Idyls  and  other  Poems  (Published  1842):  — 

The  Epic 5.3 

^  Morte  d' Arthur 54 

The  Gardener's  Daughter ;  or,  The  Pictures      .........  59 

Dora 63 

Audley  Court 66 

Walking  to  the  ,Mail 67 

Edwin  Morris  ;  or,  The  Lake 69 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 72 

The  Talking  Oak 75 

Love  and  Duty 79 

\     The  Golden  Year 80 

"^  Ulysses 82 

t/Locksley  Hall 83 

Godiva 87 

The  Two  Voices 88 

The  Day-Dream 94 

Amphion 98 

v^St.  Agnes 99 

•^Sir  Galahad 99 


CO.VTENTS.  T 

Edward  Gray loo 

Will  Wateri:)roof' s  Lyrical  Monologue loi 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters 104 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece 104 

Lady  Clare 104 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh lo'j 

W^Sir  Launcelot  and  Qaeen  Guinevere 107 

A  Farewell 107 

The  Beggar  Maid 107 

The  Vision  of  Sin 107 

"  Come  not,  when  1  am  dead  " ....  1 10 

The  Eagle no 

"  Move  eastward,  happy  Earth,  and  leave  " in 

1^*' Break,  break,  break  " m 

The  Poet's  Song in 

The  Princess:  A  Medley 112 

•  Ix  Memoriam 169 

Maud,  and  other  Poems  :  — 

Maud 205 

The  Brook  ;  an  Idyl 226 

The  Letters 229 

•^jOde  on  the  Dea*ii  *^f  the  D'ik«  of  Wellington 230 

The  Daisy 234 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  R'^aurire 235 

Will 23s 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade .  236 

Idyls  of  the  King:  — 

Dedication 237 

Enid 238 

Vivien 268 

»  Elaine 282 

Guinevere - 306 

Enoch  Ardem 31S 

Additional  Poems:  — 

Aylmer's  Field 334 

Sea  Dreams 348 


vi  COXTExVTS. 

The  Grandmother .     ,    .  353 

Northern  Farmer 356 

Tithonus 358 

The  Voyage 360 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 361 

The  Flower 361 

Requiescat 361 

The  Sailor-Boy 361 

The  Islet 362 

The  Ringlet , 362 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra 363 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International  Exhibition       ....  363 

A  Dedication 364 

The  Captain  ;  a  Legend  of  the  Navy 364 

Three  Sonnets  to  a  Coquette 365 

On  a  Mourner 366 

Song 366 

Song     , 366 

Experiments  :  — 

Boadicea 367 

In  Quantity 369 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in  Blank  Verse 370 

The  Holy  Grail,  and  other  Poems:  — 

The  Coming  of  Arthur ,     .     .  37.1 

The  Holy  Grail 379 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 395 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 405 

<tftSCELLANEOUS  :  — 

Northern  Farmer  (New  Style) 413 

The  Victim 414 

Wages 415 

The  Higher  Pantheism 415 

"  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall " 416 

Lucretius '.  416 

The  Golden  Supper 421 


CONTEXTS.                         .  vii 

Additional  Poems  :  — 

Timbuctoo 428 

Poems  published  in  the  Edition  of  1S30,  and  omitted  in  Later 
Editions  :  — 

Elegiacs 432 

The  "  How"  and  the  "Why" 432 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  second-rate  sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity 

with  itself 433 

The  Burial  of  Love 435 

To 435 

Song 436 

Song 436 

Song 436 

Nothing  will  die 437 

All  Things  will  die ,     .     .     .     .  437 

Hero  to  Leander 438 

The  Mystic 438 

The  Grasshopper 439 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forgetfulness 439 

Chorus  in  an  unpublished  Drama,  written  very  early 440 

Lost  Hope 440 

The  Tears  of  Heaven 440 

Love  and  Sorrow 440 

To  a  Lady  Sleeping 441 

Sonnet 441 

Sonnet 441 

Sonnet 441 

Sonnet 442 

Love 442 

The  Kraken 443 

English  War-Song 443 

National  Song 443 

Dualisms 444 

We  are  Free 444 

The  Sea  Fairies 444 

Oc  pe'oj/Tes 445 

Poems  published  in  the   Edition  of  1833,  and  omitted  in  Later 
Editions:  — 

Sonnet 446 

To 446 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Bonaparte 446 

Sonnets 447 

V  The  Hesperides 447 

Rosalind 449 

Song 450 

Kate 450 

Sonnet  written  on  hearing  of  the  Outbreak  of  the  Polish  Insurrection  450 

Sonnet  on  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Invasion  of  Poland     .     .     .  450 

Sonnet 451 

O  Darling  Room 451 

To  Christopher  North 451 

Fugitive  Poems  :  — 

No  More 452 

Anacreontics ^     .     .     .     .  452 

A  Fragment 452 

Sonnet 452 

Sonnet 453 

The  Skipping-Rope 453 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poets 453 

Stanzas 454 

Sonnet  to  William  Charles  Macready 454 

Britons,  guard  your  own 454 

The  Third  of  February,  1852 455 

Hands  all  round 456 

The  War 457 

On  a  Spiteful  Letter 457 

1S65-1866 458 

The  Window;  or,  the  Songs  of  the  Wrens 458 

The  Last  Tournament 461 


P  O  E  M  S . 


(published  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

RevERED,    beloved  —  O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  o;  brain  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria, — since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
I'his  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter'd  noihmg  base ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you 

time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there ; 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle 

calls. 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song  ; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.    May  you  rule  us  long. 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 
May  children  of  our  children  say, 

"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good  ; 

"  Her  court  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene  ; 
God  gave  her  peace ;  her  land  re- 
posed ; 
A    thousand    claims    to    reverence 
closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 


"  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who   knew   the    seasons,    when    to 

take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 
Which    kept   her   throne    unshaken 

still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea." 
March,  1851. 


CL  ART  BEL. 

A    MELODY. 


Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth. 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial. 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony. 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  luimmeth 
About  the  moss'd  headstone  : 

At  midnight  the  moon  cometh» 
And  looketh  down  alone. 


Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 

The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth. 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 


LILIAN.  —  ISA  BEL. 


'  ^ry^ft  slumbrous  wav^  du^wejleth, 
The  baBblmg  runnel  crispeth, 
.   The  hellqiv  pjot  replieth 
'  .Wlibre  ^la'pb^i  low-liatb. 


LILIAN. 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fair%'  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 


When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple. 
From  beneath  her  gather'd  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes. 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks  ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 
Gavety  without  eclipse 

Wearieih  me,  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth : 

Prythee  weep.  May  Lilian. 


Praying  all  I  can. 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 


Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright, 
but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chas- 
tity. 


Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended 
by 
Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  trans- 
lucent fane 
Of  her  still   spirit ;    locks  not  wide- 
dispread, 
Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her 

head ; 
Sweet    lips  whereon    perpetually 
did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity. 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood. 
Revered   Isabel,    the    crown    and 
head, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure  low- 
lihead. 


The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime ;  a  prudence  to 

withhold ; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character'd 
in  gold 
Upon  the   blanched   tablets   of  her 
heart ; 
A   love   still   burning  upward,  giving 

light 
To  read  those  laws  ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  un- 
descried. 
Winning    its   way  with    extreme 
gentleness  • 

Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious 

pride ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey  ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect 
wife. 


The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon  ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy 
one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With   swifter    movement    and   in 
purer  light 
The  vexed    eddies   of  its  way- 
ward brother : 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite. 


MARIAXA.                                                        3 

Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 

fallen  quite, 

Came  to  her  :  without  hope  of  change, 

With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  am- 

In sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forloni. 

brosial  orbs 

Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 

Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on 

mom 

each  other  — 

About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary, 

Shadow  torth  thee  :  —  the  world 

hath  not  another 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

(Though   all   her  fairest   forms  are 

She  said.  "  I  am  awean,-,  aweary, 

types  of  thee. 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 

Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  purity. 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 

And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small. 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 

MARIANA. 

Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway. 

"  Mariana  in  the  moated  frranse." 

Measure  for  Jleasitre, 

All  silver-green  with  giiaried  bark  : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 

The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  awearj', 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden- 
wall. 
The    broken    sheds    look'd    sad    and 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low^ 

strange  : 

And  the   shrill  winds  were  up  and 

Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  ; 

away. 

Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 

In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro. 

Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 

But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 

She  said,  "  I  am  awean.-.  aweary, 

cell. 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 

Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

She    only    said,    "The   night    is 

Her  tears  fell  ere   the   dews  were 

drean.'. 

dried  ; 

He  cometh  not."  she  said  ; 

She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven. 

She  said.  "  I  am  aweary-,  aweary, 

-   Either  at  mom  or  eventide. 

1  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

After  the  flitting  of  the  bats. 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house. 

sky. 

The  doors  ujion  their  hinges  creak'd  ; 

She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by. 

The  blue  fly  sung  in  the   pane ;   the 

And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 

mouse 

She    only    said,    "  The    night    is 

Behind    the     mouldering    wainscot 

drear>', 

shriek'd, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 

She  said,  "  I  am  awean,-,  awearj', 

Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors. 

Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 

Vpon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

She  only  said.  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

Waking  she   heard   the    night-fowl 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

crow  : 

She  said,  "  [  am  aweary,  aweary, 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light  : 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

MADELINE. 


The  spaiTow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loathed  the 

hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said  ; 
She  we]->t,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God,  that  1  were  dead  !  " 


TO 


Clear-headed  friend,   whose  joyful 
scoi-n. 
Edged    with    shar|5    laughter,    cuts 
atwain 
The    knots    that     tangle    human 
creeds. 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and 
strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  mom 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine  : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit  ; 
Falsehfiod    shall    bare   her    plaited 

brow  : 
Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not 
now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor     martyr-flames,     nor     trenchant 
swords 
Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie  ; 
A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 
Shot    thro'    and    thro'    with    cuiniing 
words. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch. 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in   her  utmost 

need. 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 
And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those    writhed  limbs    of   lightning 
speed  ; 


Like  that  strange  angel  which  of 
old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 
Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 
Past    Yabbok    biook    the    livelong 
night. 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 

Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  lan- 
guors. 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou   dost 

range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 

2. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  :  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smi'e  or  frown  be  fleeter .'' 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know  ? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 
Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another. 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother  ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine  ; 
Smiling,  frownincr,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  ni  love-lore. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

3- 
A  subtle,  sudden  flame. 
By  veering  passion  fann'd. 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances  ; 
When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 
The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'crflows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown  : 


RE  COL  LEC  TIOXS   OF   THE  ARA  BIA  N  NIGH  TS. 


But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  wilHng  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 
But,  lookincc  fixedly  the  while. 

All  my  bounding  heart  enta.-.glest 
In  a  golden-netted  smile  ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
'I'hy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
A.;ain  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG. —  THE   OWL. 
I. 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground. 

And  the  far-ofif  stream  is  dumb. 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round. 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

2. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And    rarely   smells   the    new-mown 
hay. 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the 
thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  : 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits. 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND   SONG. 

TO   THE   SAME. 
I. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd  I  wot, 
Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat. 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 


I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 


Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 

With  a  lengtiien''d  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE 
ARABIAN   NIGHTS. 

When  the   breeze   of  a  joyful  dawn 
blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy. 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old  ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The    fi-agrant,    glistening  deeps,    and 

clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide. 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side  : 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,    where    clear-stemm'd    platans 

guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat- head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of   braided    blooms    unmown,    which 

crept 

Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 

Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm. 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


Imbower'd  vaults  of  plllar'd  palm, 
Imprisoning    sweets,    wliich,   as   they 

clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the 
dome 
Of  hollow  boughs.  —  A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward  ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engraui'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large. 
Some  dropping  low  tlieir  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsj^rung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  niglit 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung ; 
Not   he :    but   something   which  pos- 

sess'd 

The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 

Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 

Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 

Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 

But  flattering  the  golden  prime 

Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd :    the   solemn   pahns   were 

ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind: 
A  sudden  spVendor  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold- 
green. 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 


Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 

The  level  lake  with  diamond-pfots 

Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 

Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  ; 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat. 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank. 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn  — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound. 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound. 
And     deep     myrrh-thickets     blowing 

round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks. 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid- 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  dnors. 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors. 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
l"he  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  slream'd 
Ui^on  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time, 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


ODE    TO  MEMORY. 


Tlien  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  sirl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 
With  inwTought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime, 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 


ODE  TO   MEMORY. 


Thou  who  stealest  fire. 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 

To  glorify  the  present ;  oh,  haste. 
Visit  my  low  desire  ! 

Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

I  faint  in  this  obscurity. 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

2. 

Come  not  as  thou  camest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day ;  but  robed  in  soft- 
en'd  light 
Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist. 
Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  l^row 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have 
kiss'd, 
When  she,  as  thou. 
Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely 

freight 
Of   overflowing  blooms,    and   earliast 

shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of 
fruits. 


Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 

The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist. 
And  with  the  evening  cloud. 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 

open  breast, 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the 
rudest  wind 
Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind. 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 
•  year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 

rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant 

Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught 

from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;  and 
the  cope 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity. 
Though  deep  not  fathomless. 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which 

tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infan- 
cy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  dis- 
tress ; 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth 

could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 

beautiful  : 
Sure    she    was    nigher    to    heaven's 

spheres. 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth  I  charge  thee,  arise. 
Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myri- 
ad eyes  ! 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunt- 
ing vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  .Memory  I 
Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  water- 
fall 


ODE    TO  MEMORY. —  SONG. 


Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt   the 

gray  hillside, 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed 

sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  um, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn. 
The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  wood- 
land. 
O  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled 
folds, 
Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  wak- 

en'd  loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  mom 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung 
cloud. 


Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed  ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 
Unto    the    dwelling    she    must 
sway. 
Well  hast  thou'done,  great  artist  Mem- 
ory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought 
gold  ; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 

essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 
For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased 

thee. 
That   all   which   thou   hast  drawn  of 
fairest 
Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 


The  first-bom  of  thy  genius.  Artist- 
like, 

Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 

On  the  prime  labor  of  thuie  early  days  : 

No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be  ; 

Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless 
Pike, 

Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 

Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 

Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 

Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  se 

Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste 
enormous  marsh. 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 

Like  emblems  of  infinity. 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  t» 
sky ; 

Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 

With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 

Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight 
grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 

Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 

Purple-spiked  lavender : 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 

From  brawling  storms, 

From  weary  wind, 

With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind, 

And  those  whom  passion  hath  not 
blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  "to  live  alone. 

Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 

A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  ! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG, 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you   may   hear   him  sob 
and  sigh 
In  the  walks  ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 


A  DEL  INE.  —  A    CHA  RA  C  TER. 


Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  liangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'   the  earth  so 
chilly  ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

2. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 
An  hour  before  death  ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and   my  whole 

soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves, 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  be- 
neath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'   the  earth  so 
chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELINE. 

Mystery  of  mysteries. 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest. 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

2. 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline. 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still. 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well. 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 

Spiritual  Adeline.'' 


3- 
What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone  : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath? 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

4- 
Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind. 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow. 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 


Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies? 
Doth  the  low-toiigued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  mom 
Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-dropping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  m  subtle  ring 
Make  a  circanet  of  rays. 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslijis  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


A    CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "  The  wauder-ngs 


THE  POET. 


Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty  :  that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 
Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air ; 
Then  looking  as  't  were  in  a  glass, 
He  smooth'd  his  chin  and  sleek'd  his 

hair. 
And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass'd  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes. 
And  stood  aloof  Irom  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed  : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold. 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE    POET. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born. 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dower'd  with  the   hate   of  hate,   the 
scorn  of  sconi, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good 
and  ill. 
He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay :  with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts 
were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 


Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver 
tongue, 
And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit  ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower. 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  sponging  forth 
anew 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold. 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance, 
grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  fumish'd  all    abroad  to 
fling 
The  winged  shafts  of  truth. 
To    throng   with    stately  blooms  the 
breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So   many   minds   did  gird   their  orbs 
with  beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth   was  multiplied  on  truth, 
the  world 
Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
ujicurl'd. 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And   Freedom   rear'd   in   that  august 
sunrise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow. 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden 
robes 
•         Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies  ; 
But   round  about    the  circles  of  the 
globes  ^ 
Of  her  keen  eyes 


THE   POETS  MIND.  — THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 


And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced 
in  tlame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power,  —  a  sacred 
name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of 
man. 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words. 
No  sword 
Of  wTaih  her  right  arm  whirl 'd, 
But  one  poor  jioet's  scroll,  and  with 
his  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE   POET'S   MIND. 


Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind  ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever. 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river  ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow'dsopliist,  comenotanear; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of   the   laurel -shrubs    that    hedge    it 

around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel 
cheer. 
In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 
bird  chants. 


It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came 
in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning. 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder ; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun- 
tain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yon- 
der: 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heav- 
en above. 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 
And   yet,    tho'   its  voice  be  so  clear 

and  full. 
You  never  \\  ould  hear  it ;   your  ears 

are  so  dull ; 
So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul 

with  sin  ; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you 
came  in. 


THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and 
saw. 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the 
running  foam, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bos- 
oms prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and  while 
they  mused. 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in 
fear, 

Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the 
middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 
away  ?  fly  no  more. 

Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field, 
and  the  happy  blossoming  shore  ? 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls ; 

Do\vn  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 

From  wandering  over  the  lea  : 

Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 

They  freshen  the  silvery  -  criuisoa 
shells. 

And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE.  — THE  DYING  S>VAN. 


High  over  the  full-toned  sea  : 

O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your 

sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 
Hither,   come   hither    and  frolic  and 

play; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails. 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and 

dales, 
And  merrily  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 

bay, 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the 

land 
Over  the  islands  free  ; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 

the  sand  ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 

wave, 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove   and 

cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 
For  merrjf  brides  are  we  : 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 

sweet  words : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee  : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the 

golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 
Whither  away  ?  listen  and  stay  :  mari- 
ner, mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE   DESERTED   HOUSE. 

Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side. 
Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  ; 
Careless  tenants  they ! 

2. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door. 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 


Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  wi.idows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


Come  away  :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 


Come  away  :  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would    they  could    have    stayed 
with  us ! 


THE  DYING   SWAN. 


The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 

Which  had  built  up  everj'where 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 

With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 

Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on. 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 


Some   blue   peaks   in   the   distance 

rose, 
And   white   against   the    cold-white 

sky. 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did 

sigh; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will. 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and 

still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and 

yellow. 


A    DIRGE.— LOVE   AND  DEATH. 


The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the 

soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow  :  at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear ; 
And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 
Prevailing  m  weakness,  the  coronach 

stole 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear ; 
But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice. 
With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 
Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold ; 
As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 
With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and 

harps  of  gold, 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 
Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 
To   the   shejiherd  who  watcheth  the 

evening  star. 
And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clamber- 
ing weeds, 
And    the   willow-branches    hoar    and 

dank. 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing 

reeds. 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echo- 
ing bank. 
And  the   silvery  marish-flowers    that 

throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A    DIRGE. 


Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work  ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast. 
Fold  thme  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Frettetii  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thv  bed  ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  tiiat  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  faint  and  pale. 
And  long  puqiles  of  the  dale. 
Let  them  rave. 


Tliese  in  every  sliower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy 


Let  them  rave. 


grave. 


The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine. 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Wild  words  wander  here  and  there  ; 
Ciod's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
ALikes  thy  memory  confused  : 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND   DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was 
gathering  light 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Para- 
dise, 

And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous 
eyes  ; 


THE  BALLAD   OF  ORIANA. 


When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in 

view 
Death,   walking  all   alone  beneath   a 

yew. 
And   talking  to  himself,  first  met  his 

sight : 
"  You    must    begone,"    said    Death, 

"  these  walks  are  mine." 
Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans 

for  flight ;         _ 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  "  This  hour  is 

thine  : 
Thou  art  tlie  shadow  of  life,  and  as 

the  tree 
Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  be- 
neath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life   eminent    creates    the    shade   of 

death  ; 
The   shadow  passeth  when  the   tree 

shall  fall, 
But  I  shall  reign  forever  over  all." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 

My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd 

with  snow. 
And    loud    the    Norland    whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana  : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana  ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 


By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana  : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana  : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call. 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside. 
And  pierced  thy  heart,   my  love,  my 
bride, 

Oriana  ! 
Thy  hfeart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 

Oh  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana  ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 
Oriana. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana  ! 
O  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana  ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak. 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana  : 


CIRCUMSTANCE.—  THE  MERMAN. 


What  wantest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou 
seek, 
Oriana  ? 

I  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand  !  O  cursed  blow  ! 
Oriana  ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana  ! 
All  nijrht  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the 
sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUxMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy 

leas ; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 

wall  ; 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden 

ease  ; 
Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 

church-tower, 
Wash'd   with    still    rains    and    daisy- 

b'ossomed ; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  bom  and 

bred  ; 
5o  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to 

hour. 


THE    MERMAN, 


Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone. 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea. 
With  a  crown  of  gold, 
On  a  throne  ? 

2. 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the 

day ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice 

of  power ; 
But  at  night   I  would  roam  abroad 

and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the 

rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white 

sea-flower ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flow- 
ing locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  lau'j:hingly ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away, 

away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight 

and  high. 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

3- 
There  would    be   neither   moon    nor 

star; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 

us  afar  — 
Low  thunder  and  light  in  the   magic 
night  — 
Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy 

dells. 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 
All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  span- 
gles and  shells. 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands 
between. 
All  night,  merrily,  merrily  : 
But  1  would  throw  to  them  back  in 

mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 


THE  MERMAID.  — SONNET. 


I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly,  laughingly. 
Oh  !  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  houow-hung  ocean  green  ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea ; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE    MERMAID. 


Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea. 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair  ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of 

the  day  ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb 

my  hair  ; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing 

and  say, 
"  Who  is  it  loves  me  ?  who  loves  not 

me? " 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ring- 
lets would  fall. 
Low  adown,  low  ado\\Ti, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around. 
And  I  should  look  like  a   fountain 
of  gold 
Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central 

deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look 

in  at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love 

of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


But  at  night  I  would  wander  away, 

away, 
I  would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 
flowing  locks. 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 
.  play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 
rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and 
seek, 
On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crim- 
son shells, 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nigh  est  the 
sea. 

But  if  an}^  came  near  I  would  call,  and 
shriek. 

And  adown  the  steep  like   a  wave   I 
would  leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges   that  jut 
from  the  dells  ; 

For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who 
would  list. 

Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the 
sea ; 

They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 
flatter  me. 

In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea  ; 

But  the  king  of  them  all  would  cairy 
me. 

Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 

In   the   branching  jaspers   under  the 
sea ; 

Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 

In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 

Would   curl   round   my  silver  feet  si- 
lently. 

All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 

And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 

All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned, 
and  soft 

Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 
of  the  sea, 

All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET   TO   J.  M.   K. 

My   hope   and  heart  is  with   thee^ 

thou  wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  mas- 
ter's feast ; 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


17 


Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of 

thee ; 
Thou  art   no  sabbath-drawler  of  old 

saws. 
Distill 'd    from    some    worm-canker'd 

homily ; 
But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and   to  wall   about  thy 

cause 
With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 


The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit- 
drone 

Half  God's  good  sabbatli,  while  the 
worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.  Thou 
from  a  liiroiie 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  tlie 
dark 

Arrows  of  lightaiugs.  I  will  stand  and 
mark. 


POEMS. 

(published  1832.) 

[This  division  of  this  volume  was  published  in  the  winter  of  1832.  Some  of  the 
poems  have  been  considerably  altered.  Others  have  been  added,  which,  with  one 
exception,  were  written  in  1833.  J 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


On  either  side  tlie  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
I'hat  clotlie  tlie  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  tlie  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  pef>ple  go. 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  tiiere  below. 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  sliiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  d(jwn  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers. 
Overlook  a  space  of  tlowtrs, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail 'd 
By  slow  horses;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  tiitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  lier  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand .'' 


Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 
The  Lady  of  bhalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley. 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  tlie  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  '*  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shoiott." 


Therb  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  tlie  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weavelh  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  ot  Siialott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  ail  the  year, 
.Sli.idows  of  the  world  ai)|)ear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  tliere  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 
Pass  onward  horn  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The    knights    come    riding    two    and 

two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights. 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights. 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"  I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


A  BOWSHOT  from  her  bower-eaves. 
He  rode  between  the  barley  sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves. 
And  tlamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  redcross  knight  tbrever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  men-ily 

As  he  rode  dowai  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leath- 
er. 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'dlike  one  burning  flame  together. 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 


As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His    broad    clear    brow    in    sunlight 

glow'd ; 
On    burnish'd    hooves    his   war-horse 

trode  ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 
Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room. 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning. 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  com- 
plaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 
And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
"^ith  a  glassy  countenance 
/  Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 

And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she 

lay: 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 
The  Lady  ol"  Shalott. 

Ikying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
Thatloosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 


MARIA.VA    IN   THE   SOUTH. 


And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 
The  Lady  of  ijhalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holv. 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reachd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  ShalotL 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  tloated  by, 
A  corse  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame. 
And   round   the   prow  they  read   her 
name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  ; 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face  ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet. 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines. 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat. 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right. 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore. 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  "  Ave  i^Lary,"  made  she  moan. 
And    "Ave  'Mar>',"   night  and 
mom. 
And  "Ah,"  she  sang,  "to  be  all 
alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 


She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  la^)er  fingers  drew 

Her  streammg  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear. 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine. 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine. 
The  home  of  woe  wi'thout  a  tear. 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  washer  moan, 
"  Madonna,    sad    is  night    and 
morn  "  ; 
And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all 
alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deejJ  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast. 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she  ; 
Complaining,  "  Mothcir,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
"  That  won  his  praises  night  and 
mom?" 
And  "  Ah,"  she  said,  "but  I  wake 
alone, 
I   sleep  forgotten,    I    wake   for- 
lorn." 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would 
bleat, 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault. 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again. 
And  seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain 

grass. 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 
She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan. 
And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
mom, 
She  thought,  "  My  spirit  is  here 
alone, 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream  : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 

She  woke  :  the  babb'e  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glar» 


ELEANORE. 


Slirank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
Tiie  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or 
mom, 
"  Sweet  -Mother,  let  me  not  here 
alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn.', 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  "Love,"  they  said,  "must  needs 
be  true, 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  forevermore." 

"  O  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her 
tone, 
"And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is 
scom, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  for- 
lorn !  " 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  jiass  the  door. 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  dav  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  tlie  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 
"  The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
"  The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
mom. 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 

And  deepening   through   the   silent 
spheres. 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 
And  weeping  then  she  made  her 


"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
rot  mom. 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 


ELEANORE. 


Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not. 
Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  Eng- 
lish air, 
For  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which,   from  the  outward  to  the  in- 
ward brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
P"ar  off  from  human  neighborhood, 
Thou   wert  bom,   on   a    summer 
mom, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 
With    breezes    from     our    oaken 
glades, 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 
land 
Of    lavish     lights,    and     floating 
shades : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills. 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny 
shore, 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the 
earth. 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees. 
Thro'  half-ojien  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lyin^  alone, 
With  whitest  honey  m  fairy  gar- 
dens cull'd  — 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
In   silk-soft   folds,    upon   yielding 
down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lull'd. 


ELEAXORE. 


Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 
Summer  herself  sliould  minister 

To    thee,    with    fruitage    golden- 
rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-thicken'd   from   the   light,    and 
blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shad(nving  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Kleanore  ! 


How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-tiowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  state. iness, 
Eleanore  ? 
The  luxuriant  symm3try 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow. 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?     For  in 
thee 
Is   nothing    sudden,   nothing 
single  ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From    one    censer,   in   one 

shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle. 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

(Jf  richest  jiauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep  ; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  ? 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore  ; 

1  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Diily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  tlie  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold,         | 


Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
1  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyag 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 
Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  1 

6. 
Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 
Ga<sing,  I  seem  to  see 
Tliought  tbidod  over  thought,  smiling 

asleep. 
Slowly  awaken'd,   grow  so    full    and 

deep 
In   thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd 

quite, 
I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 
But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 
A*  tho'  a  star,  in  mmost  heaven  set, 
Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it. 
Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slow- 
ly grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again. 
And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  be- 
fore ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Elea- 
nore. 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roofd  the  world  with  doubt  and 
fear. 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ; 
In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passion- 
less, 
Touch'd  by  tliy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  conteiniilation  : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will ; 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land. 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,    languid 
Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand. 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding 
thee, 
And   so  would  languish    ever- 
more, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 

unconfined, 

While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes   low   between    the    sunset 

and  the  moon ; 

Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon. 

On  silken  cushions  halt"  reclined  ; 

1   watch  thy  grace  ;   and  in   its 
place 
My    heart    a    charmed     slumber 
keeps, 
While  I  muse  upon  thy  face  ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth  ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife. 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  witii    delirious   draughts   of 
warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  1  would  hear  from 

thee  ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  ivotdd  be  dying  evermore, 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet. 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size. 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  tbrget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 
The  .slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without. 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 


In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three   fingers  round  the  old   silver 
cup  — 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There  's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There  's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife. 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of 
pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I  'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk. 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  atter-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  tbe  w  ine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan  ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  ej'es,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before     I     dream'd    that    pleasant 
dream  — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  svvay'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 
The    milldam    rushing    down    with 
noise. 

And  see  the  minnows  every-where 
In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 

The  tall  flag-flowers  w  hen  they  sprung 
Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


*\ 


Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,   that 
hung 
In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  AHce,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('T  was  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain. 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes. 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went   and  came    a    thousand 
times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  Httle  circles  die ; 
Ihey  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye  ; 
The  retlex  of  a  beauteous  fonn, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That    morning,    on   the   casement's 
edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge : 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They    met    with   two    so    full    and 
bright  — 
Such  eyes  !    I  swear  to  you,  mjr  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

Th.at  I  should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And    fill'd    the    breast   with    purer 
breath. 
My   mother   thought.    What   ails   the 
boy? 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  becran 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man.  • 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swnm 
Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 


The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam. 
The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor. 
The    dark    round    of    the   dripping 
wheel. 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below  ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope. 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the 
mill; 
And   "  by  that  lamp,"   I   thought, 
"  she  sits  !  " 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
"  O  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

0  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 

O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?" 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the 
blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light. 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chau- 
Flitted  across  mto  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak. 

The   lanes,    you   know,  were  white 
with  May, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,   bnt  your 
cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  was — half-sly,  half-shy, 

Vou  would,  and  would  nf)t,  little  one  ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  aione. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1  might  have  lookVl  a  little  higher: 
And  I  was  young —  too  young  to  wed  : 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake  ; 


THE   MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said  : 
Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  AUce,  you  were  ill  at  ease  ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too    fearful    that    you    should   not 
please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in 
tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings. 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see  ; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things. 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  j'ou  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  witii  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,   press'd  you  heart  to 
heart. 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem, 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper 
by.        

It  is  the  miller's  daughter. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear  : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and 
white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  so'Tow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  ri^ht, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom. 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 


A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells^ 

True  love  interiirets  —  right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early 
rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art. 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one. 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot. 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 
Ah,  no  !  no  ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.    True 
wife. 
Round  my  true  lieart  thine  arms  en- 
twine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years. 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears. 
Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them 
well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed:  they   had  their 
part 

Of  sorrow  :  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type. 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before  ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 


FATIMA.- 

-  CENONE.                                          25 

With  farther  lockings  on.     The  kiss, 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 

He  Cometh  quickly  :  from  below 

Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

Sweet  gales,   as   from   deep  gardens. 

The  comfort,  1  have  lound  in  thee : 

blow 

But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who 

Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 

wrought 

in  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 

Down  -  deepening     from    swoon    to 

With     blessmgs     beyond     hope     or 

swoon, 

thought, 

Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can 

find. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire. 

And  trom  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth. 

Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds  ; 

The  skies  sloop  down  in  their  desire  ; 

For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light. 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 

My  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierc* 

And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

delight. 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 

Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently. 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky. 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 
I  will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

\ 

F  A  T  I  M  A . 

1  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 

Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 

0  Love,   Love,   Love  !     0  withering 

Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 

might ! 

0  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 

Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight. 

Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

CENONE. 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 

Lo,  parch'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

blind. 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

The   swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart 

the  glen. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from 

Below  the  city's  eastern  towers  : 

pine  to  pine. 

I  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers : 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either 

1  roil'd  among  the  tender  flowers  : 

hand 

I    crush'd   them  on  my  breast,  my 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway 

mouth  : 

down 

I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below 

Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

them  roars 

The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his 

ravine 

name, 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and 

Behind  the  valley  tojimost  Gargarus 

came 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning  :  but 

A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 

in  front 

Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  tVame. 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

C)  Love,  O  tire  !  once  he  drew 

Troas  and  liion's  column'd  citadel, 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul 

The  crown  of  Tro  is. 

thro' 

Hither  came  at  noon 

My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 

CENONE. 


Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the 
hills. 

Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 
her  neck 

Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in 
rest. 

She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 
vine. 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade 

Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 
upper  clitf. 

"  O    mother    Ida,    many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the 

hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass  : 
The   lizard,   with   his  shadow   on  the 

stone, 
Rests  like   a  shadow,  and  the  cicala 

sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop  :  the  golden 

bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of 

love, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are 

dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  O    mother    Ida,    many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me  O  Earth,  hear  me  O  Hills, 

O  Caves 
That   house  the  cold  crown'  d  snake  ! 

O  mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build 

up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder 

walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd   shape  :    for  it 

may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper 

woe. 

"  O    mother    Ida,    many-fountain'd 
Ida, 
Dear  nioiher  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 


I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Alofi  the   mountain   lawn    was  dewy- 
dark. 
And    dewy-dark   aloft    the    mountain 

pine  : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-honi'd, 

white-hooved. 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Far-off  the  torrent  cali'd  me  from  the 
cleft : 

Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With 
down-dropt  eyes 

I  sat  alone  :  white-breasted  like  a  star 

Pronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leop- 
ard skin 

Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his 
sunny  hair 

Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a 
Gcd's; 

And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and 
all  my  heart 

Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming 
ere  he  came. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk- 

white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure   Hesperian 

gold. 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I 

look'd 
And  listen'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of 

speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  'My  own  CErone, 
Beautiful -brow'd  GEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 

ingrav'n 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to 

award  it  thine. 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  mar- 
ried brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida.  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest   the  blossom  o*'  his  lips  to 
mine. 


(ENONE. 


27 


And  added,  '  This  \\-as  cast  upon  the 
board, 

When  a!l  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 
Gods 

Range  I  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  where- 
upon 

Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 
't  were  due  : 

But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester- 
eve, 

Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common 
voice 

Elected  umpire,  Herfe  comes  to-day, 

Pnllas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 

This  meed  of  fairest.  Tltou,  within 
the  cave 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest 
pine, 

Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  un- 
heard 

Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of 
Gods.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon  :  one  silvery 

cloud 
Had  lost   his  way  between   the   piny 

sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  bower 

they  came. 
Naked    they   came    to    that    smooth- 
swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like 

fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel. 
Lotos  and  lilies  :  and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and 

vine. 
This  way  and   that,    in  many  a  wild 

festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 

and  thro'. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud, 

and  lean'd 
Upon  him,   slowly  dropping   fragrant 

dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that 

grows 


Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris 

made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,   '  from 

many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed 

with  corn. 
Or  labor'd  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,   'and  homage,  .tax 

and  loll. 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing 

citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  tow- 


"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake 
of  power, 

'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 

Power  fitted  to  the  season ;  wisdom- 
bred 

And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all 
neighbor  crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 

Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.  Such  boon 
from  me. 

From  me.  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to 
thee  king-bom, 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king- 
born. 

Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing 
men,  in  power 

Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 

Rest  in  a  hajipy  place  and  quiet  seats 

Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 

In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly 

fruit 
Out    at    arm's-length,    so    much    the 

thought  of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spint ;  but  Pallas  where 

she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 


28 


(ENONE. 


The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest 

eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry 

cheek 
Kept   watch,   waiting  decision,    made 

reply. 

"  *  Self-  reverence,  self-  knowledge, 
self-control, 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 
power. 

Yet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live 
by  law. 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without 
fear ; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said  :  '  I  woo  thee  not  with 

gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I 

am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed. 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of 

fair, 
Unblass'd  by  self-profit,  oh  !  rest  thee 

sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave 

to  thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood. 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a 

God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of 

shocks, 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will, 
Circled  thrfl'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perlect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceased, 
And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  '  O 

Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas  ! '   but  he  heard  me 

not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is 

me  ! 


"  O    mother    Ida,    many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful. 
Fresh    as    the    foam,    new-bathed   in 

Paphian  wells. 
With   rosy   slender    fingers   backward 

drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,    golden    round    her   lucid 

throat 
And  shoulder :    from  the  violets  her 

light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white, and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between    tlie    shadows    of  the    vine- 
bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she 

moved. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild 

ej-es, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,   drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise 

thee 
The   fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in 

Greece.' 
She   sjjoke   and   laugh'd :   I  shut  my 

sight  for  fear : 
But  when  I  look'd,   Paris  had  raised 

his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  v\  ithdrew  into  the  golden  cloud. 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone. 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not 
fair? 

My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand 
times. 

Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 

When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton 
l")ard, 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  wath  play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most 
loving  is  she? 

Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that 
my  arms 


(ENOiVE. 


39 


Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot 
Ups  prest 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-fall- 
ing dew 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 

Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 

They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest 
pines, 

My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the 
craggy  ledge 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  be- 
tween 

The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cata- 
ract 

Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet — from  be- 
neath 

Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 
dark  morn 

The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while 
I  sat 

Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 

Shall  lone  OEnone  see  the  morning 
mist 

Sweep  thro'  them ;  never  see  them 
overlaid 

With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver 
cloud, 

Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem- 
bling stars. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd 

folds, 
Among   the   fragments  tumbled  from 

the  glens, 
Or  the  di-y  thickets,  I  could  meet  with 

her. 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall, 
And  cast   the  golden  fruit   upon  the 

board. 
And  bred  this  change ;   that  I  might 

speak  my  mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and 

men. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green 

hill, 


Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone  .^ 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with 

tears  ? 
O   happy  tears,   and    how   unlike   to 

these  ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see 

my  face  ? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear 

my  weight  ? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-float- 

ing cloud, 
There  are   enough   unhappy  on    this 

earth. 
Pass  by  the  happy  soids,  that  love  to 

live  : 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of 

life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou    weighest   heavy   on   the    heart 

withui. 
Weigh  heavy  on  myeyelids  :  let  me  die. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  frery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 

and  more. 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the 

inmost  hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purj^ose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born  :  her  child  ! — a  shudder 

comes 
Across  me  :  never  child  be  bom  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's 

eyes  I 

"  O  motlicr,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  L)  eartit.  I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come 

to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 

Death 
Unconiforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise 

and  go 
Down   into   Troy,    and   ere   the   stars 

come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she 

says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 


30 


THE   SISTERS.  —  THE   PALACE   OF  ART. 


What   this   may  be   I  know  not,  but 

I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and 

day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning 

fire." 


THE    SISTERS. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died  :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 

She    mix'd    her    ancient    blood    with 

shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  tun-et  and 

tree. 

Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early 

and  late. 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait : 
O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come  ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed. 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I   stabb'd  him  thro'  and 
thro'. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  look'd  so  grand  wlien  lie  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  1 


TO 


WITH    THE   FOLLOWING   POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegoiy, 

(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 

A  sinlul  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 

A  spacious  garden  full  of  tlowering 
weeds, 

A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and 
brain. 

That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty 
seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty;  or  if 
Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge 
are  three  sisters 

That  doat  upon  each  other,  friends  to 
man. 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without 
tears. 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn 
shall  be 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie 

Howling  in  outer  darkness.  Not  for 
this 

Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  com- 
mon earth. 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with 
the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE   PALACE  OF  ART. 

I   BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure- 
house, 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  ca- 
rouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  bur- 
nish'd  brass, 
I  chose.    The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  ot  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or 
shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  windmg  stair. 


THE   PALACE   OF  ART. 


31 


My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "  while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,"  I  said, 
"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

"  Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for 
me. 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West  and 
South  and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted 
forth 
A  flood  of  fountain- foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a  row 
Of  cloisters,   branch'd   like   mighty 
woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  h.-  v 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 
That   lent    broad  verge   to    distant 
lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where 
the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in 
one  swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And    high    on    every   peak    a   statue 
seem'd 
To  hmg  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall 
gaze  upon 
My  iialace  with  unblinded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the 
sun. 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? " 


For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail'd, 
And,    while   day   sank   or   mounted 
higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd. 

Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 
Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced. 
Would   seem   slow-flaming  crimson 
fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  inter- 
laced. 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom. 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul 
did  pass. 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  pal- 
ace stood. 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green 
and  blue. 
Showing;  a  gaudy  summer-mom. 
Where  with   pufTd  cheek  the  belted 
hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red,  —  a  tract 
of  sand. 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone. 
Who  paced   forever  in  a  glimmering 
land. 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry 
waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and 
fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellow- 
ing caves. 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endlcis  plain. 
The  rat^ged  rims  of  thunder  brooding 
low. 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 


THE  PALACE   OF  ART. 


And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry 
toil, 
In   front   they  bound   the   sheaves. 
Behind 
Were   realms  of  upland,   prodigal    in 
oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And    one,    a  foreerround    black    with 
stones  and  slags, 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the 
scornful  crags. 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And    one,  an    English    home, — gray 
twilight  pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees. 
Softer  than  sleep,  —  all  things  in  order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape 
fair, 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern, 
was  there, 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm. 
Beneath   branch-work    of   costly   sar- 
donyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea, 
Ne.ir  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound   with   white    roses,    slept    St. 
Cecily ; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying   Islamite,  with  hands  and 
eyes 
That  said.  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalnn, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 
To  list  a  footfall,  ere  he  saw 


The   wood-nymph,    stay'd   the  Auso- 
nian  king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The   throne   of  Indian    Cama   slowly 
sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet   Europa's  mantle  blew  un- 
clasp'd, 
From    off   her    shoulder    backward 
borne : 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus  :  one 
hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else   flush'd   Ganymede,   his   rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  tlie  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was 
there. 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 
that  swung. 
Moved   of   themselves,   with   silver 
sound  ; 
And  with    choice    paintings   of  wise 
men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph 
strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and 
mild ; 
And    there    the    world -worn    Dante 
grasp'd  his  song. 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And   there   the   Ionian  father  of  the 
rest ; 
A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 
A  hundred   winters  snow'd  upon  his 
breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 


"The  daughter  ofa  hundred  Earls 
^-  -e  not  one  to  be  desired  ■' 


THE   PALACE    OF  ART.                                       33 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  litt, 

song 

And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 

Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

With  interchange  ot"  gift. 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

mirth. 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 

Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every 

Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible 

land 

earth. 

So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

The  people  here,  a   beast  of  burden 

Communing  with  herself:  "All  these 

slow. 

are  mine. 

Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with   goads 

And   let   the   world   have   peace  or 

and  stings ; 

wars. 

Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 

'T  is  one  to  nie. "     She  —  when  young 

The  heads  aud  crowns  of  kings ; 

night  divine 

Crovvn'd  dying  day  with  stars. 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break 

or  bind 

Making  sweet  close   of  his  delicious 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 

toils  — 

And   here  once  more  like  some  sick 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 

man  declined. 

And    pure   quintessences   of  precious 

And  trusted  any  cure. 

oils 

But  over  these  she  trod :   and  those 

In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems. 

great  bells 

To  mimic  heaven  ;  and  clapt  her  hands 

Began    to    chime.      She    took    her 

and  cried. 

throne  : 

"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and 

She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 

To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

wide. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  color'd 

Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 

tlame 

"  0  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below  ; 

eyes ! 

Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brovv'd  Veru- 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me 

1am, 

well ! 

The  tirst  of  those  who  know. 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell  ! 

And  all   those  names,   that   in    thc'r 

motion  were 

"  0  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

Full  -  welling      fountain  -  heads     of 

I  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 

change, 

What   time    I   watch    the    darkening 

Cetwixt  the  slender  shafts  were   bla- 

droves  of  swine 

zon'd  fair 

That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

In  diverse  raiment  strange  : 

".In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber, 

skin. 

emerald,  blue, 

They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and 

Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 

sleep  ; 

And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Mem- 

And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 

non,  drew 

And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Rivers  of  melodies. 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

P'"'^^'^-      ...          .      ,      , 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 

And  ot  the  rising  from  the  dead, 

THE   PALACE   OF  ART. 


As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish'd 
Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and 
deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all." 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn 
mirth. 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper' d :  so 
three  years 
She  prosper' d :    on   the  fourth   she 
fell. 
Like   Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in 
his  ears. 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 

The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 

Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she 

turn'd  her  sight, 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 

Wrote    "  Mene,   mene,"    and  divided 

quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  soli- 
tude 
Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was 
born 
Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that 
mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

•*  What  !    is    not    this   my    place    of 
streaigth,"    she  said, 
"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me. 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory?" 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 
Uncertain  shapes ;  and  unawares 


On    white-eyed    phantasms    weeping 

tears  of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And   hollow   shades   enclosing  hearts 
of  flame, 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months  old  at  noon 
she  came. 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  ray 
soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of 
sand  ; 
Left  on  the  shore  ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from 
tiie  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starrj'  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing 
saw 
The   hollow   orb   of  moving   Circum- 
stance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had 
curl'd. 
"  No  voice,"   she   shriek'd  in   that 
lone  hall, 
"  No  voice  breaks  thro'  the   stillness 
of  this  world : 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all !  " 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's 
mouldering  sod, 
Inwrapt  tenfo.d  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears. 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unrelieved  bj;  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt 
round 
With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall. 


LADV  CLARA    VERE   DE    VERS. 


Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully 
sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking 
slow, 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  heari  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sei ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a 
sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep 
cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts  ;   then  thinketh, 
"  I  have  found 
A  new  laud,  but  I  die." 

She   howl'd  aloud,    "  I    am    on    fire 
within. 
There  comes  no  munnur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  th.it  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  le^t  I  die  ?  " 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  fin- 
ished, 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  awiy. 
"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she 
said, 
"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 
that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance   I   may  return  with  others 
tliere 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shill  not  win  renown  : 
You  thou^rht  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  von  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbecruiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired  : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  He  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  vour  name. 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from   whence    I 
came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 


A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find. 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  sloop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  loTe, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put   strange   memories   in   my 
head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  1  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Ladv  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  oher  kind. 

.She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear  ; 
Her  maniiers  had  not  that  renose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
I  Vere. 

j     Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
I         There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
i     The  guilt  ofb'ood  is  at  your  door  : 
I         You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to 
I  gall. 

You  held  your  course  without  remorse. 
To  make  him  tiu>t  his  modest  worth. 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare. 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me.  Clara  Vtre  de  Vere, 

From  von   blue   heavens  above   us 
bei.t 
The  grand  old  ga^-dener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent 
Howe'er  it  be.  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Qara  Vere  de  Vere  : 
You    pine    among    your    halls  and 
towers : 


THE  MAY  queen: 


The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In    glowing    health,    with    boundless 
wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
Vou  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as 
these. 


Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE    MAY    QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear; 

To-mon-ow'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 

For  I  'ni  to  be  Queen  o'  the  INIay,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There  's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 

There  's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there  's  Kate  and  Caroline  : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 

So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  nirht,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break  : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay. 

For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see. 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridp-e  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 

He  thought  of  tliat  sharp  look,  motlier,  I  gave  him  yesterday, — 

But  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white. 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he  's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be  : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  —  what  is  that  to  me? 

There  's  manv  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

Little  EflRe  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you  Ml  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen  ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  ever\'  side  'ill  come  from  far  av/ay. 

And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honevsuckle  round  the  porch  has  v.'ov'n  its  wavy  bowers. 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo  flowers  ; 
And  the  wild  marsh -marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-gi-ass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass  ; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  wliole  of  the  livelong  day, 

And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEir -YEAR'S  EVE.  3 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still- 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  liowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play. 

For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  1  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-mon-ow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  1  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR'S    EVE. 

If  you  're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mouid  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  ail  my  peace  of  mind  ; 
And  the  New-year  's  coming  up,  mother,  but  1  shall  never  see 
I'he  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers  :  we  had  a  merry  day  ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-poic  and  in  the  haze!  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills  :  the  frost  is  on  the  pane : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdr<ips  come  again  : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  1  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  mf)rning  tlie  suminer  su;i  'ill  shine. 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill. 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  inc  wliere  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you  '11  forgive  me  now  ; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  "mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go  ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild. 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 


THE  MA  Y  QUEEN. 

If  T  can  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place  ; 
Tho'  you  '11  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  ; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  1  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  otten  with  you  when  you  think  I  'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  liive  said  good-night  forevermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green  : 
She  '11  be  a  better  chiid  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She  '11  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor : 
Let  her  take  'em  :  they  are  hers  :  I  shall  never  garden  more  : 
But  tell  her,  when  I  'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother :  call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 
All  night  1  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you  're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am  ; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  1  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  1  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet 's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  tlie  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  tirat  cannot  rise. 
And  sweet  Is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  slay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done  ! 
But  stili  I  think  It  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 

And  blessings  on  Ills  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there  ! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 

A  thousand  times  1  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there  's  One  will  let  me  in ; 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine. 
And  Efifie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll. 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 


THE   LOTOS-EATERS. 

For  lyins  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear  ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  liouse,  and  I  no  longer  here  ; 
Witli  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  fur  both,  and  so  I  felt  resign'd. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  sometiiing  speak  to  me —  I  know  not  what  was  said; 
P'or  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping  ;  and  I  said,  "  It 's  not  for  them  :  it 's  mine. 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought.  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  tlie  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  nnisic  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  /ler  when  1  am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There  "s  many  worthier  tiian  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might  have  been  his  wife  ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  lile. 

O  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine  — 

Wild  tlowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?  why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home  — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  yAu  and  E'Tie  come  — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

"  Courage  !  "    he  said,   and   pointed 

toward  the  land, 
"  This   mounting   wave    will    roll    us 

shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land. 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon. 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary 

dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the 


And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slen- 
der stream 

Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and 
fall  did  seem. 


A  land  of  streams  !  some,  like  a  down 

ward  smok«, 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn, 

did  go ; 
And  some  thro'  wavering  lights   and 

shadows  broke. 
Rollins   a   .slumbrous   sheet    of   foam 

below. 


4° 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward 

flow 
From   the   inner  land :  far  off,   three 

mountain-tops, 
Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 
Stood  sunset-flush'd  :  and,  dew'd  with 

showery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowj'  pine  above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low 
adown 

In  the  red  West :  thro'  mountain 
clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow 
down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  wind- 
ing vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galin- 
gale  ; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 
the  same  ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces 
pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eat- 
ers came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted 

stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof 

they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the 

wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mouni  and 

rave 
On   alien   shores ;    and   if    his   fellow 

spake. 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he   seem'd,   yet  all 

awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow 
sand, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the 
shore ; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father- 
land, 

Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave ;  but 
evermore 


Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  wear}'  the 

oar. 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 

foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return 

no  more  "  ; 
And   all   at   once    they  sang,     "  Our 

island   home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;   we  will  no 

longer  roam." 

CHORIC     SONG. 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer 

falls 
Than  petals  from  blowm  roses  on  the 

grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 

walls 
Of  shadowy   granite,    in    a   gleaming 

pass  ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet   sleep   down 

from  the  blissful  skieb. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep. 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies,  creep, 
And    in   the   stream   the    long-leaved 

flowers  weej), 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 

2. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  snarp  dis- 
tress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from 
weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we 
toil   alone. 

We  only  toil,  \\ho  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan. 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another 
thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 

And  cease  from  wanderings. 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 
balm  ; 

Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 
crown  of  things  ? 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS.                                         41 

3- 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the 

Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

beach. 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the 

And   tender  curving  lines   of  creamy 

bud 

spray  ; 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  mel- 

care, 

ancholy  ; 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 

Nightly  dew-fed;  and  turning  yellow 

memory. 

Fails,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Lo  !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light. 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

The   full-juiced   apple,    waxing    over- 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 

mellow. 

um  of  brass  1 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

Ail  its  allotted  length  of  days. 

6. 

The  flower  ripens  \\\  its  place. 

Dear  is  the   memor}'  of  our  wedded 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath 

lives. 

no  toil, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

And  their  warm  tears:   but  all   hath 

sufifer'd  change  ; 

4- 

For  surely  now  our  "household  hearths 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

are  cold  : 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Our  sons   inherit   us  :    our  looks  are 

Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 

strange  : 

Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to 

Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth   onward 

trouble  joy. 

fast. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Have  eat  our  subotance,  and  the  min- 

Let us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  la.st  ? 

strel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten-years'  war  in 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  be- 

■  come 

Troy, 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 

Past. 

things. 

Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 

have 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 

'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 

the  grave 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain. 

In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath. 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many 

or  dreamful  ease. 

wars 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on 

5- 

the  pilot-stars. 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 

ward stream. 

7- 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 

moly. 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  am- 

How sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us, 

ber  light. 

blowing  lowly) 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush 

With  half-dropt  eyelids  still. 

on  the  height  ; 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy. 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  draw- 

Eating the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

ing  slowly 

A    D  RE  A  31  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick- 
twined  vine  — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water 
falling 

Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath 
divine  ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-oif  spark- 
ling brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 
beneath  the  pine. 


The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren 
peak : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding 
creek  : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with 
mellower  tone  : 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 
yellow  Lotus-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 
motion  we, 

RoU'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard, 
when  the  surge  was  seething  free, 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted 
his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 
an  equal  mind. 

In  the  hollow  Lotus-land  to  live  and 
lie  reclined 

On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  care- 
less of  mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and 
the  bolts  are  hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 
clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled 
with  the  gleaming  world  : 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking 
over  wasted  lands. 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth- 
quake, roaring  deeps  and  fiery 
sands, 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 
sinking  shij^s,  and  praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  cen- 
tred in  a  doleful  song 

Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  an- 
cient tale  of  wrong. 

Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the 
words  are  strong ; 


Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men 

that  cleave  the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,   and  reap  the   harvest 

with  enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil  ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  —  some, 

't  is  whisper'd-^  down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Ely- 

sian  valleys  dwell. 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet 

than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar  ; 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I  READ,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade, 
"  The  Legend  of  Good  IFoTnen," 
long  ago 
Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who 
made 
His  music  heard  below  ; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts, 
that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his 
art 
Held   me   above    the   subject,    as 
strong  gales 
Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho' 
my  heart. 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both   mine   eyes  with  tears. 
In  every  land 
I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in 
hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient 
song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 
ing stars, 


A    DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


43 


And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame, 
and  wrong. 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars ; 

And    clattering    flints    batter'd    with 
clanging  hoofs : 
And    I    saw   crowds   in   column'd 
sanctuaries ; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and 
on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces  ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold ;  heroes 
tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 

Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with 
heated  blasts 
That    run    before    the    fluttering 
tongues  of  fire ; 
White   surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails 
and  masts. 
And  ever  climbing  higher ; 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  ni'^n  in  bra- 
zen plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  di- 
vers v/oes, 
Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron 
grates. 
And  hush'd  seraglios. 

So  shape   chased   shape   as  swift   as, 
when  to  land 
Bluster  the  winds   and  tides  the 
self-same  way, 
Crisp  foam  flakes  scud  along  the  level 
sand, 
Tom  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

.1  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in 
pain, 
Resolved   on    noble    things,    and 
strove  to  speak, 
As  when  a  great  thought' strikes  along 
thi  brain. 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew 
down 

A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow. 
That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd  town  ; 

And  then,  I  know  not  how, 


All  those  shani  fancies,  by  down-laps- 
ing thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges, 
and  did  creep 
Roll'don  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd, 
and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wander'd 
far 
In  an  old  wood  :  fresh-wash'd  in 
coi^lest  dew. 
The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning 
stai 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elmtree-bolesdid  stoop  and 
lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 
neath 
Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged 
with  clearest  green. 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  mom  had  died,  her  jour- 
ney done. 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain, 
Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the 
sun. 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead 
air. 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of 
rill ; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.     Growths  of  jas- 
mine turn'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree 
to  tree. 
And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses 
bum'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves, 
I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 
On  those  lone,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench'd  in  dew. 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 


A    DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


The   smell  of  violets,    hidden   in  the 
green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul 
and  frame 
The  times  wlien  I  remember  to  have 
been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 
ThrilI'd  thro'   mine   ears   in    that 
unblissful  clime, 
"  Pass  freely  thro' :    the   wood   is  all 
thine  own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call. 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  stand- 
ing there ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with 
surprise 
Froze  my  swift  speech :  she  turn- 
ing on  my  face 
The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes. 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beauty  :  ask  thou  not  my 
name  : 
No   one   can  be   more  wise  than 
destiny. 
Many  drew  swords  and  died.   Where'er 
I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 

"  No  marvel,  sovereign  lady :  in  fair 
field 
^lyself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly 
died," 
I   answer'd  free ;    and   turning    I    ap- 
peal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 
averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stat- 
ure draws  ; 
"My  youth,"  she  said,  "was  blasted 
with  a  curse  : 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  In  that  sad 
place. 
Which    yet    to    name    my    spirit 
loathes  and  fears : 


My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face ; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"  Still  strove  to  speak  :  my  voice  was 
thick  with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.      Dimly   I  could 

desciy  ' 

The   stern   black-bearded   kings  with 
wolfish  eyes. 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

"  The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay 
afloat ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd, 
and  the  shore  ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  vic- 
tim's throat ; 
Touch'd  ;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward 
brow : 
"  I  would  the  white  cold  heavy- 
plunging  foam, 
Whirl'd   by  the  wind,   had  roll'd  me 
deep  below. 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow   full   words   sank   thro'  the 
silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping 
sea  : 
Sudden    I    heard  a  voice   that   cried, 
"  Come  here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery 
rise. 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  un- 
roll'd ; 
A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold 
•     black  eyes. 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,   flashing  forth  a  haughty   smile, 
began  : 
"  I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and 
so  I  sway'd 
All  moods.      'Tis  long  since   I  have 
seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"  The    ever-shifting    currents    of    the 
blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and 
flow. 


A    DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN: 


45 


I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood  : 
Tha.t  makes  my  only  woe. 

"  Nay  —  yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could 
not  bend 
One  will  ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with 
mine  eye 
That  dull  cold-blooded  C^sar.     Pry- 
thee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

"The  man,  my  lover,   ■wntlr  whom   I 
rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck  :  we  sat  as  God 
by  God : 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his 
time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

"  We  di-nnk  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 

and  lit 
Lamps  which  outbum'd  Canopus.     O 

my  life 
In  Eaiypt !   O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war's  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  ray  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

"  And  there  he  died  :  and  when  I  heard 
my  name 
Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not 
brook  my  fear 
Of  the  other :  with  a  worm  I  balk'd 
his  fame. 
What  else  was  left  ?  look  here  !  " 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and 
half 
The  polish'd  argent  of  her  breast 
to  si.sht 
Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with 
a  laugh, 
Showing  the  aspic's  bite.) 

"  I  died  a  Queen.    The  Roman  soldier 
found 
Me  lying  dead,   my  crovN-n  about 
mv  brows, 
A   name   forever  !  —  lying   robed   and 
crfiwn'd. 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 


Her  warbling  voice,-  a  lyre  of  widest 
range 
Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 
and  glance 
From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 
change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for 
delight  ; 
Because  with  sudden  motion  from 
the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fiU'd 
with  light 
The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keen- 
est darts ; 
As  once  they  drew  into  two  burn- 
ing rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  meltmg  the  mighty 
hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.     Then  I 
heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro' 
the  lawn. 
And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested 
bird. 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

"The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 
From  craggy  liollows  pouring,  late 
and  soon, 
Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  tliro' 
the  dell. 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

"The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 
Floods' all    the    deep-blue    gloom 
with  beams  divine : 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall 
the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sun- 
shine laves 
The  lawi  by  some  cathedral,  thro' 
the  door 
Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  \\-aves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd 
and  tied 
To  where  he  stands,  —  so  stood  I, 
when  that  flow 


46 


DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN: 


Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 
A  maiden  pure  ;  as  when  she  went 
along 
From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  wel- 
come light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth  :  "  Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  ren- 
dered answer  high  : 
"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;  a  thousand 
times 
I  would  be  bom  and  die. 

"  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant, 
whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes 
beneath. 
Feeding  the  flower  ;  but  ere  my  flower 
to  fruit 
Changed,  1  was  ripe  for  death. 

"My  God,  my  land,  my  father,  — these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Na- 
ture gave, 
Lower'd  soltly  with  a  threefold  cord  of 
love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  He- 
brew boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
among 
The  Hebrew  mothers' — emptied  of 
all  joy. 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 
Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal 
bower. 
The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that 
glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 
den  ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one 
by  one. 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 


"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  try- 
ing flame, 
And   thunder   on   the   everlasting 
hills. 
I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief 
became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"  When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into 
the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd 
my  desire. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell. 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's 
will; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"  Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race    . 
Hew'd   Ammon,    hip   and    thigh, 
from  Aroer 
On  Amon  unto  Winneth."     Here  her 
face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

She  lock'd  her  lips  :  she  left  me  where 
I  stood  : 
"  Glory  to  God,"   she  sang,   and 
past  afar, 
Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the 
wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 
As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans 
his  head. 
When    midnight    bells   cease   ringing 
suddenly. 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

■"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murmur'd  beside  me  :  "Turn and 
look  on  me  : 
I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
fair. 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"  Would    I    had   been    some    maiden 
coarse  and  poor  ! 
O  me,  that  1  should  ever  see  the 
light  ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 


MARGARET. 


47 


She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope 
and  trust : 
To  whom  the  Egyptian  :  "  O,  you 
tamely  died  I 
You   should    hive  clun;;    to    Fulvia's 
waist,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 
creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 
mystery 
Of  folded  sleep.     The  captain  of  my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Mom  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the 
dark. 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her 
last  trance 
Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 
Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  van- 
quish D^ath, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
her  king. 
Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath. 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors   longer  from  the 
d^en 
Goldmines  of  thought  to  lift  the 
hidden  ore 
That  glimpse?,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little   sound  and   sight.      With 
what  dull  pain 
Comna- >'d,  how  eagerly   I  sought 
to  ;  trllc- 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams 
a^aln  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath 
been  blc^t, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  wnth  past 
years. 
In  yeamm"",  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears  ; 


Because    all   words,    tho'   cull'd   with 
choicest  art. 
Failing  to  give   the  bitter  of  the 
sweet. 
Wither  beneath   the   palate,   and  the 
heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


MARGARET. 


O  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive    thought    and   aspect 
pale. 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood. 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak. 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek. 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedelh 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 

Like  the  tender  amber  round. 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 

2. 

You  love,  remaining  peacefully. 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea. 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  ficht. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alwav 

Remainingbetwixt  darknnd  bright: 

Lull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to   you,    gleams   of  mellow 

light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

What  ran  it  matter,  Manraret, 

What  sonirs  below  the  waning  stars 

The  lion-heart,  Plant.atrenet, 

Sane  looking  thro'  his  prison  bar;? 
E.\quisite  Margaret,  who  can  teP 


48     THE  BLACKBIRD.  —  THE  DEA  TH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  fallen  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true 

heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 


A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 
»      Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine. 
But  more  human  in  your  moods. 

Than  vour  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch' d  with  a  somewhat  darker 
hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue, 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty- woful  sympathies. 


O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 

speak  : 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  oh  your  cheek : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  famt,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 
Where  all  day  long  you  sit  betweeh 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves. 
Look  down,   ^nd  let  your  blue  eyes 
dawn 
Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE   BLACKBIRD. 

O   Blackbird  !    sing  me   something 
well: 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee 

round, 
I    keep    smooth    plats    of   fruitful 
ground, 
Where   thou   may'st  warble,  eat,  and 
dwell. 


The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine  ;   the  range  of  lawn   and 

park  :  _ 
The    unnetted    black-hearts    ripen 
dark. 
All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still. 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill  !  the  silver  tongue. 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry  : 
Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 

That  made  thee  famous   once,   when 
young : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 
Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to 

coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning  !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue. 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are 
new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD 
YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow. 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sigh- 
ing : 
Toll  ye  the  church -bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low. 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily. 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still  :  he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true- 
love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


TO   J.  S. 


49 


He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 
\  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
Hut  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  tho'  his  Ibes  speak  ill  of  hira, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you. 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 

VwX  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 

1  o  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 

]  I  is  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 

but  he  Ml  be  dead  before. 

Even,'  one  tor  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend, 

And    the    New-year    blithe     and 
bold,  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps  :    the   light  bums 

low  : 
'T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock.  '< 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ?  | 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  shaqi  and  thin. 
Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There  's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor, 
my  friend. 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 
friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.    S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain, 
blows 

More  softly  round  the  open  wold. 
And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 

That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 


And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  I  had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

'T  is  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most. 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are 
nursed. 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost  : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.    Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ;  but,  when  love  is 
grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  whicli  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas! 

In  grief  1  am  not  all  unlearn'd  ; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did 
pass  ; 
One    went,    who   never  hath  re- 
turnd. 

He  will  not  smile  —  not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair 
is  seen 

EinpU'  before  us.     That  was  he 

Without  whose  lite  I  had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer  ;  for  this  star 

Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother :  his  mute  dust 
I  honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bcjld  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

I  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh. 

Since    that   dear  soul   hath  fall'n 
asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I  : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro'   the 
brain, 
I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"  Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward 
pam." 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 
She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 


50 


YOU  ASK  ME,   JVHV.  —  OF  OLD  SA  T  FREEDOM. 


More  than  much  pleasure.     Let  her 
will 
Be  done  —  to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind  "  ; 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In    all    our   hearts,    as    mournful 
light 
That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And   dwells   in   heaven    half   the 
night. 

Vain  solace  !    Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her 
throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I. wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.     In  truth. 
How  sJiould  I    soothe   you  any- 
way. 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both  ;  yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would 
make 
Grief    more.      'T  were    better    I 
should  cease  ; 
Although  myself  could  almost  take 
The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in 
peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul,  _ 

While  the  stars  burn,  the   moons  in- 
crease, 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 
Nothing   comes  to   thee  new  or 
strange. 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 
Lie    still,    dry    dust,     secure    of 
change. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas  ? 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till. 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends 
or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will  ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown. 
Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head. 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought. 
The   strength    of   some    diffusive 
thought 
Hath    time   and   space   to   work    and 
spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land  to 
land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 
Should    almost     choke    with    golden 
sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth. 
Wild  wind  !   I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights. 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet  : 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights  : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 


LOVE    THOU   THY  LAXD. 


Then  stept  she  dowti  thro'  town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fuhiess  of  her  face  — 
Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

F'roni  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 
Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 

And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown  : 
Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 
That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our 
dreams. 
Turning  to  sconi  with  lips  divine 

The  falsehood  of  extremes  ! 


Love  thou   thy  land,   with  love  far- 
brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  tuni'd  round  on  fixed  poles. 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends. 
For  English  natures. freemen, friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time. 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The   herd,   wild  hearts  and   feeble 
wings. 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for 
day. 

The'  sittmg  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

>Like  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  ;' 
lUit  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 

Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the 

vears ; 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  .grain  : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 
Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 


Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch. 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but 
firm  : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law  ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fill 
With    Life,   that,  workmg  strongly, 

binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm. 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long. 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which 

flies. 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  ail  the  pa.st  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder  peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  ni  a  painful  school  ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule. 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour. 
But  vague  in  vai^or,  hard  to  mark  : 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd. 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 

Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 
Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind ; 


s* 


THE   GOOSE. 


A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 
And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

l)rive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth. 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ev^r  shock,  like  armed  foes. 
And   this  be   true,   till    Time   shall 
close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and 

gi'ilt. 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt. 
Would  pace   the   troubled  land,   like 

Peace  ; 
Not  less,  tho'  do§s  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and 

word, 
Certain,     if    knowledge    bring    the 
sword. 
That    knowledge    takes     the    sword 

away  — 
Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that 
broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should 
rise 
Would    strike,    and    firmly,    and    one 

stroke : 
To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 
Earn  well   the   thrifty  months,  nor 
wed 
Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


THE    GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 

Her  rags  scarce  held  together  ; 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 

And  it  was  windy  weather. 
He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 
"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you 
warm. 

It  is  a  stormy  season." 


She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg. 

A  goose  —  't  was  no  gi^eat  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 

With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 
She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelt. 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors  ; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herseif. 

And  rested  from  her  labors. 
And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft. 

Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 
Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doif 'd, 

The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 
So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 

She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder  : 
But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 

It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 
It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there  ; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle: 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair. 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 
"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  ! " 

Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 
"  Go,   take  the  goose,   and  wring  her 
throat, 

I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the  car; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that. 

And  fill'd  the  house  with  clamor. 
As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 

They  flounder'd  all  together, 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 

And  it  was  windy  weather : 
He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter'd  words  of  scorning  ; 
"  So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 

It  is  a  stormy  moming." 
The   wild   wind   rang  from  park  and 
plain, 

And  round  the  attics  rumbled. 
Till  all  the  tables  danced  again. 

And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled, 
Tlie  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 

The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 
Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up. 

And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder; 
And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 

Her  household  fled  the  danger, 
Quoth  she,  "  The  Devil  take  the  goose. 

And  God  forget  the  stranger  I  " 


THE  EPIC. 


53 


ENGLISH    IDYLS   AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


(published  1S42.) 


THE    EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas- 
eve,  — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done  —  the  girls 

all  kiss'd 
Beneath    the    sacred  bush    and  past 

away  — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 

Hall, 
The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebb'd  :  and  there  we  held 

a  talk. 
How    all    the    old     honor   had    from 

Christmas  gone. 
Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd 

games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this  ;  till  I,  tired 

out 
With  cutting  eights   that  day  upon  the 

pond. 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 

outer  edge, 
I   bump'd   the   ice  into  three  several 

stars, 
Fell  in  a  doze  ;  and  half-awake  I  heard 
The   parson   taking   wide    and   wider 

sweeps, 
Now  haqiing  on   the   church-commis- 
sioners. 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  : 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled 

down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Kight  thro'  the  world,  "  at  home  was 

little  left. 
And  none  abroad  :  there  was  no  anchor, 

none. 
To  hold  by."    Francis,  laughing,  clapt 

his  hand 
f>n  Everard's  shoulder,   with  "  I  hold 

by  him." 
'   And    I,"   quoth   Everard,    "by   the 

wassail -bowl." 


"  Why  yes,"  I  said,  "  we  knew  your  gift 

that  way 
At  college  :  but  another  which  you  had 
I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then.) 
What  came  of  that  ?  "      "  Vuu  know," 

said  Frank,  "  he  burnt 
His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 

books"  — 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why  ?    "  O, 

sir. 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 

or  else 
Something  so  said  't  was  nothing  —  that 

a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the 

day  : 
God  knows  :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons  : 

ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."     "Nay, 

nay,"  said  Hall, 
"  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic 

times  ? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Masto- 
don, 
Nor  we  tho.se  times  ;  and  why  should 

any  man 
Remodel  models?  these  twelve  books 

of  mine 
Were  faint   Homeric  echoes,  nothing- 
worth. 
Mere    chaff  and    draff,    much   better 

burnt."     "  But  1," 
Said   Francis,    "  pick'd    the    eleventh 

from  this  hearth. 
And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will 

come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 
He  laugh'd,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like 

a  horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd 

my  ears  ; 
For  I  remember'd    Everard's  college 

fame 
When  we  were  Freshmcir  .  then  at  my 

request 


54                                            MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 

He  brought  it ;  and  the  poet  little  urged, 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

But  with  some  prelude   of  disparage- 

an arm 

ment, 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom'  of  the  lake, 

Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 

aes, 

derful. 

Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 

Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row"d 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  ; 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 

But  now  delay  not  :  take  Excalibur, 

Among  the   mountams  by  the  winter 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 

sea ; 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 

Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man. 

me  word." 

Had   fall'n   in    Lyonness   about    their 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 

Lord, 

"  It  is  nc*  meet  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound 

thus. 

was  deep. 

Aidless,  alone,  and   smitten  thro'  the 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

helm. 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights,  . 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man.  ^ 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 

Watch  what  I    see,   and  lightly  bring 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 

thee  word." 

land. 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

stept 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  oi 

full. 

tombs. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

Where lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

vere  : 

men, 

"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 

The  goodliest    fellowship    of  famous 

wmd  sang 

knights 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

V\'hereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such 

stepping  down 

a  sleep 

By  zig-zag  paths,   and  juts  of  pointed 
rock. 

They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.    I  think 

that  we 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  2x- 

Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

calibur, 

deeds. 

And  o'er  him,   drawing  it,  the  winter 

Walking  about    the   gardens   and  the 

moon, 

halls 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

ran  forth 

I  perisli  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 

And  sparkl»d  keen   with  frost  against 

Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

the  hilt  : 

again 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will 

studs, 

be,  be, 

Myriads   of  topaz-lights,   and  jacinth- 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 

work 

That  without  lielj:)  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 

Of  subdest  jewellery.   He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he 

Ihou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excali- 

bur. 

stood. 

Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remem- 

This  \yay  and  that  dividing  the  swift 

berest  how 

mind. 

MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
1  letter  to  leave  Excalibur  couceal'd 
I'iiere  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back,  slow  to  the  wounded 

king. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"  Hast    thou   perform'd    my    mission 

which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard  ?  " 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"  1  heard   the  ripple  washing  in  the 

reeds. 
And   the  wild  water  lapping  on   the 

crag." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight  : 
For   surer   sign   had   foUow'd,    either 

hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,    quickly   go 

again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  the-",  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word." 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere. 
Counting  the   dewy   pebbles,    fix'd   in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 
"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a   precious   thing,    one  worthy 

note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the 

earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done  ? 


What  harm,    undone?  deep   haim   to 

disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  de- 
mand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should   be    to   aftertime,    but    empty 

breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this 

kept. 
Stored    in    some     treasure-house    of 

mighty  kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arm'^. 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 

bur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wTOught  it,  sitting  in 

the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  tl»e 

aftertime 
To  all  the  peo]ile,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 

conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  six)ke  King  Arthur,  breathing 

heavily : 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what 

hast  heard?  " 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
*'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  cmtr. 
And  the   long  ripple   washing  in   the 

reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath  : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,   traitor-hearted  1     Woe  is 

me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eve 
That  bow'd  the  will.     1  see  thee  wliat 

thou  art. 
For    thf.'i,    the    latest-left    of  all    m5 

knights, 


S6 


MORTE   D' ARTHUR. 


In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  v.ouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the   third  time  may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I    will   arise   and   slay   thee   with   my 

hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 

ran, 
And,    leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword. 
And   strongly    wheel'd   and  threw   it. 

The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon. 
And   flashing  round   and   round,    and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the   northern 

mom. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 

sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,   and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,    drawing 

thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out  :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 

or  seen? " 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never 

saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 

die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three   lives   of  mortal 

men. 


So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then   with   both   hands  I  flung   him 

wheeling  him  ; 
But   when    I  look'd  again,  behold  an 

arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brand- 

ish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere." 
And    answer    made    King    Arthur, 

breathing  hard  : 
"My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 

my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 

die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 

eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  tvould  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words. 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 
But,    as    he    walk'd.    King   Arthur 

panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 

bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.    So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring   at  his  ear 

"  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  .shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 

as  he  walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  cave 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  clitFclang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake. 
And   the    long  glories   of  the  winter 

moon. 
Then    saw    they  how  there  hove  a 

dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from   stem  to 

stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and   descending  they 

were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were   dense  with 

stately  forms 
Black-stoled,     black-hooded,     like    a 

dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  — 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 
Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me 

in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There 

those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and   took   the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 

brow 
Striped  with  dark   blood  :  for  all   his 

face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like   the  wither'd 

moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  spring- 
ing east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset  ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 


I     That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising 

sun 
High    from     the    dais-throne  —  were 

parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,   clotted   into   points   and  hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So    like   a   shatter'd  column   lay   the 

King  : 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 

in  rest. 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment, 
Shot   thro'   the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 

charged 
Before    the    eyes    of    ladies    and    of 

kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Be- 

divere, 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been   not   since  the 

light  hath  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  m>Trh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  t.\blk  is 

dissolved 
Which   was  an  image  of  the   mighty 

world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  tlie  days  darken  round  me,  and 

the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from 

the  barge  : 
"  The   old   order    changeth,    yielding 

place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 

the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May   He  within  himself  make  pure' 

but  thou. 


58                                            MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 

If  thou  shouldst  never   see   my   face 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with 

again, 

sound. 

Pray  for  my  soul.     More   things  are 

And     waked    with     silence,    grunted 

wrought  by  prayer 

"  Good  !  "  but  we 

Than  this  world  dreams  of     Where- 

Sat rapt :  it  was  the  tone  with  which 

fore,  let  thy  voice 

he  read  — 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

Perhaps   some   modem  touches    here 

day. 

and  there 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  noth- 

goats 

ingness — 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the 

Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized 

brain, 

his  work  ; 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 

I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said. 

of  prayer 

The  cock  crew  loud ;  as  at  that  time 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

of  year 

them  friend  ? 

The   lusty  bird   takes  eveiy  hour  for 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

dawn  : 

way 

Then  Francis,  muttering,   like  a  man 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

ill-used. 

God. 

"  There  now —  that 's  nothing  !  "  drew 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long 

a  little  back,  _ 

way 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd 

With  thesQ  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go— 

log, 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with   a 

That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the 

doubt) 

flue  : 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 

seem'd 

snow, 

To   sail   with   Arthur  under  looming 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 

shores. 

Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  or- 

Point  after  point ;    till   on   to   dawn, 

chard-lawns 

when  dreams 

And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 

Begin to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day, 

mer  sea, 

To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 

crowd, 

wound." 

There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  for- 

So said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 

ward,  bore 

and  sail 

King  Arthur,  like  a  modem  gentleman 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 

Ol  stateliest  port ;  and  all  the  people 

breasted  swan  — 

criecl. 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

"  Arthur  is   come   again  :    he   cannot 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

die." 

the  flood 

Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills 

With  swarthy  webs.      Long  stood  Sir 

behind 

Bedivere  • 

Repeated  — "Come  again,  and  thrice 

Revolving  many  meruories,  till  the  hull 

as  fair  "  ; 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed  — 

of  dawn, 

"  Come 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be 

no  more." 

At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 

,       Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 
that  long 

That   with    the    sound   I   woke,    and 

heard  indeed 

Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness, 

The    clear   church-bells   ring    in    the 

flared  and  fell : 

Christmas  morn. 

THE   GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


59 


THE    GARDENER'S     DAUGH- 
TER; OR,  THE  PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the 

day. 
When   I   and    Eustace  from   the  city 

went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter  ;  I 

and  he, 
Brotliers  in  Art ;  a  fHendship  so  com- 
plete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,   that 

we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 
My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Her- 
cules ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of 

breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love, 

and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little  ;  —  Ju- 
liet, she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit  —  oh, 

she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 

moons. 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing !    Know 

you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love. 
To  tamper  with   the  feelings,  ere  he 

found 
Empire  for  life  ?  but  Eustace  painted 

her, 
And  s.iid  to  me,  she   sitting  with  us 

then, 
"  When  will^^M  paint  like  this?"  and 

I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half 

in  jest,) 
"  'T  is    not    your  work,   but   Love's. 

Love,  unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all. 
Came,    drew    your    pencil   from   you, 

made  those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 

hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front 

of  March." 
And   Juliet  answer'd   laughing,    "  Go 

and  see 


The  Gardener's  daughter :  trust  me, 

after  that. 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  mas- 
terpiece." 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 

went. 
Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor 

quite 
Beyond  it,   blooms  the  garden  that  I 

love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes 

to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells  ; 
And,   sitting  muffled  in   dark   leaves, 

you  hear 
The   windy   clanging  of  the   minster 

clock  ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow 

broad  stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the 

oar, 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on. 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
CrowTi'd  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are    dewy-fresh,    browsed    by    deep- 

udcler'd  kine. 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers 

low. 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmur- 
ous wings. 
In   that  still  place  she,  hoarded   in 

herself. 
Grew,   seldom  seen  :   not  less  among 

us  lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.     Who  had 

not  heard 
Of   Rose,   the   Gardener's  daughter? 

Where  was  he. 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart. 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in 

grief. 
That,  having  seen,  fo»got  ?    The  com- 
mon mouth. 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise 

of  her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And   Beauty  such   a  mistress  of  the 

world. 
And  if  I  .said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love. 
Would    play   with    flying    forms  and 

images, 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 


6o                              THE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her 

But   shook   his   song  together  as  he 

name 

near'd 

My   heart  was  Hke  a   prophet  to  my 

His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left 

heart, 

and  right, 

And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the 

of  hopes. 

hills  ; 

That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like 

The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 

winged  seeds, 

The  redcap  whistled  ;  and  the  night- 
ingale 

Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw. 

Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 

Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of 

And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 

day. 

balm 

And    Eustace   turn'd,    and    smiling 

To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the 

said  to  me. 

air 

"  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo  !  by  my 

Of  Life   delicious,   and  all   kinds   of 

life. 

thought. 

These    birds    have    joyful    thoughts. 

That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than 

Think  you  they  sing 

the  dream 

Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song? 

Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when   the 

Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  diey 

dark  East, 

sing  ? 

Unseen,   is  brightening  to   his  bridal 

And  would  they  praise   the   heavens 
for  what  they  have  ? " 

morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory 

And    I    made   answer,    "  Were   there 

folds 

nothing  else 

Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went   . 

For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but 

To  see  her.     All  the  land  in  flowery 

only  love, 

squares. 

That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for 

Beneath   a  broad  and    equal-blowing 

praise." 

wind, 

Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read 

Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one 

my  thought, 

large  cloud 

And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had 

Drew  downward  :  but  all  else  of  Heav- 

pass'd. 

en  was  pure 

We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the 

Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge 

North  ; 

to  verge. 

Down    which    a    well-worn    pathway 

And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 

courted  us 

And  now, 

To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge  ; 

As  the'  't  were  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 

This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 

The  hour  just  flown,  that  mom  with 

Thro'     crowded    lilac-ambush    trimly 

all  its  sound, 

pruned  ; 

I, For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the 

And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 

life of  these,) 

fume,  blew 

Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot 

Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 

to  graze,  • 

The  garden  stretches  southward.     In 

And,  where   the   hedge-row  cuts   the 

the  midst 

pathway,  stood, 

A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers 
of  shade. 

Leaning   his   horns  into  the  neighbor 

field. 

The  garden -glasses   shone,    and   mo- 

And lowing  to  his  fellows.     From  the 

mently 

woods 

The  twinkling  laurel   scatter'd   silver 

Came    voices    of   the    well-contented 

lights. 

doves. 

"  Eustace,"    I  said,   "  This  wonder 

The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 

keeps  the  house." 

for  joy, 

He  nodded,  but  a  moment  aftenvards 

THE   GARDE XER'S  DAUGHTER.                             6i 

He  cried,  "  Look  !  look  !  "     Before  he 

"  Ah,  one  rose, 

■ceased  I  turn'd, 

One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers 

And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her 

cull'd. 

there. 

Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd 

For  up   the    porch  there  grew    an 

on  lips 

Eastern  rose, 

Less  exquisite  than  thine." 

That,  tlowering  high,  the   last  night's 

She  look'd  :  but  all 

gale  had  caught. 

Suffused  with   blushes  — neither  self- 

And  blowii  across  the  walk.     One  arm 

possess'd 

aloft  — 

Nor  startled,   but  betwixt   this  moo<1  ' 

Gown'd  in  pure   white,  that  fitted  to 

and  that. 

the  shape  — 

Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet  — paused. 

Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she 

And   dropt  the  branch  she  held,   and 

stood. 

turning,  wound 

A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown 

Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her 

"hair 

lips 

Pour'd  on  one  side  :  the  shadow  of  the 

For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer 

flowers 

came, 

Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  waver- 

Nor vet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted 

"it. 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue- 

ing 
Lovingly    lower,     trembled    on     her 

waist  — 

like. 

Ah,  happy  shade  —  and  still  went  wa- 
vering down, 

In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 

^  But,  ere  it  "toucli'd  a  foot,  that  might 

Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 

*              have  danced 

Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white 

The  greensward   into  greener  circles, 

star 

dipt, 

Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the 

And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  com- 

dusk. 

mon  grounu  ! 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows, 

way 

and  sunn'd 

With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter 

Her  violet    eyes,  and  all   her   Hebe- 

me. 

bloom, 

"Now,"  said  he,  "will  you  climb  the 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against 

top  of  Art. 

her  lips. 

You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 

The  Titianic  Flora.     Will  you  match 

breast 

My  Juliet?  you,  not  you,  —  the  Mas- 

As never  pencil    drew.      Half  light, 

ter.  Love, 

half  shade. 

A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 

She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep 

young. 

for  joy. 

So  rapt,  we  near'd  the  house  ;  but 

Reading   her  perfect   features  in   the 

she,  a  Rose 

gloom. 

In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil, 

Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tend- 

o'er. 

ance  turn'd 

And    shaping  faithful    record  of   the 

Into  the  world  without  ;  till  close  at 

glance 

hand. 

That  graced  the  giving  —  such  a  noise 

And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  in- 

of life 

tent, 

Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a 

This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that 

voice 

air 

Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come, 

Which  brooded  round  about  her  :    - 

and  such 

62 


THE   GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the 

dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watch- 
men peal 
The  sliding  season  :  all  that  night  I 

heard 
The  heav\'  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy 

hours. 
The   drowsy  hours,   dispensers  of  all 

good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded 

wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters    of  the 

East. 
Love  at   first  sight,  first-bom,   and 

heir  to  all. 
Made  this  night  thus.     Henceforward 

squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where 

she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me  :  sometimes  a 

Dutch  love 
For  tulips ;  then   for  roses,   moss  or 

musk. 
To  grace  my  city-rooms  ;  or  fruits  and 

cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm  ;  and  more 

and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my 

cheek ; 
A   thought   would  fill   my  eyes  with 

happy  dew ; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with 

each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden 

pass'd : 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the 

shade  ; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 

new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by 

day. 
Like   one   that  never  can   be  wholly 

known. 
Her  beauty  grew  ;  till  Autumn  brought 

an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep 

"  I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God, 

to  hold 


From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds  :  but 

I  rose  up 
Full   of  his   bliss,   and  following  her 

dark  eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath   me,    till  I 

reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  stand- 
ing there. 
There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden 

mound. 
Two    mutually   enfolded ;    Love,    the 

third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both ;  and  over  many  a 

range 
Of  waning   lime    the   gray  cathedral 

towers. 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows:  from 

them  clash'd 
The  bells  ;  we  listen'd  ;  with  the  tnne 

we  play'd  : 
We  spoke  of  other  things  ;  we  coursed 

about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near 

and  near. 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling 

round 
The  central  wisli,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  1  spoke 

to  her, 
Requiring,   tho'    I  knew  it  was  mine 

own. 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I 

loved ; 
And  in  that   time  and  place  she  an- 

swer'd  me. 
And   in   the   compass  of  three    little 

words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  "  I  am 

thine." 
Shall  I  cease  here?     Is  this  enough 

to  say 
That    my   desire,    like    all    strongest 

hopes. 
By  its  own  energy  fulfill'd  itself. 
Merged  in  completion?     Would  you 

learn  at  full 
How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial 
.     grades 


DORA. 


Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ?  and  in- 
deed 

I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with 
sad  eyes, 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth  ; 

And  while  I   mused,    Love  with  knit 
brows  went  by, 

And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  rny  lips. 

And  spake,  "  Be  wise  :  not  easily  for- 
given 

Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart, 

Let  in  the  day."    Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 
Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of  that  which   came   between,   more 
sweet  than  each, 

In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the 
leaves 

That  tremble  round  a  nightingale  —  in 
sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utter- 
ance. 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.    Might  I 
not  tell 

Of  difference,   reconcilement,  pledges 
given. 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows. 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one 
wild  leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all   pulsation,  as 
above 

The  heavens  between  their  tairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting 
stars ; 

Orwhile  thebalmy glooming, crescent-lit, 

Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores. 

And  in  the  hollows  ;  or  as  once  we  rnet 

Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering 
rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of 
sighing  wind, 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 
But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 

On    that    veil'd    picture  —  veil'd,    for 
what  it  holds 

M  ay  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 


This  prel  ude  has  prepared  thee.    Raise 

thy  soul  ; 
Make   thine   heart    ready  with   thine 

eyes  ;  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there. 
As   I   beheld   her  ere   she   knew  my 

heart. 
My   first,    last   love  ;    the    idol  of  my 

youth. 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 

age. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  .Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his 

son. 
And  she  his  niece.    He  often  look'd  at 

them. 
And  often  thought  "  I  '11  make  them 

man  and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all. 
And  yeam'd  towards  William  ;  but  the 

youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the 

house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said, 

"  My  son  : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I 

die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora :  she  is  well 
To  look  to  ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  as;e. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 

he  died 
In  foreitrn  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora  ;  take  her  for  your 

wife  ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night 

and  dav, 
For  many  years."     But   William  an- 

swer'd  short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  bv  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."    Then  the  old 

man 
Was  wToth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 

and  said : 


64 


DORA. 


"  You  will  not,  boy !  you  dare  to  an- 
swer thus ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was 

law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look 

to  it ; 
Consider,  William  :  take  a  month  to 

think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you 

shall  pack. 
And   never    more    darken    my   doors 

again." 
But  William  answer'd  madly  ;  bit  his 

lips. 
And  broke  away.    The  more  he  look'd 

at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways 

were  harsh  ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then 

before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 

■   fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd 

and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,  when  tlie  bells  were  ringing, 

•Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said  :  "  My  girl,  I  love 

you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my 

son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his 

wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is 

law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She 

thought, 
"It  cannot  be:  my  uncle's  mind  will 

change  !  " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was 

born  a  boy 
To  William ;  then  distresses  came  on 

him  ; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's 

gate. 
Heart-broken,   and  his  father  help'd 

him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 

save. 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did 

they  know 


Who  sent  it  ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he 

died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Marj'.    Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy, 

and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.    Dora  came  and 

said  : 

"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now 

And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 

This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

But,  ALiry,  for  the  sake  of  him  that  's 

gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 

chose. 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 

five  years 
So  full  a  harvest  :  let  me  take  the  boy, 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless   him  for  the   sake  of  him 

that 's  gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went 

her  way 
Across    the   wheat,    and   sat    upon   a 

mound 
That  was  unsown,  where    many  pop- 
pies grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his 

men 
Dare  tell   him  Dora  waited  with   the 

child  ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone 

to  him. 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her  ;  and  the  reap- 
ers reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 

and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound  ; 
And  made  a   little   wreath   of  all  the 

flowers 
That  errew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his 

^hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's 

eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the 

field 


DORA. 


65 


He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at 

work, 
And  came  and  said  :    "  Where   were 

you  yesterday  ? 
Whose  child  is  that !    What  are  you 

doing  here  ? " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ^ound, 
And  answer'd  sot'tly,  "  This  is  Wil- 
liam's child  !  " 
"And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "  Dcra  said  again, 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child 
And  bless  him  for  the   sake   of  him 

that 's  gone  !  " 
And  Allan  said,   "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and   the   woman 

there. 


I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 
"      ,     id 
you  dared 


You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet 


To  slight  it.     Well  — for  I  will  take 

the  boy  ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me 

more." 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried 

aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wTcath  of 

flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her 

hands. 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the 

field. 
More   and  more  distant.     She   bow'd 

down  her  Iiead, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she 

came. 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She 

bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret  ;   and  the  reapers 

reap'd. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
Then  Dora  went   to  Mary's  house, 

and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.    Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in 

praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the 

boy  ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with 

you  : 

5 


He   says   that  he  will  never  see   me 

more." 
Then    answer'd    Mary,    "  This  shall 

never  be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on 

thyself: 
And,  now   I  think,  he  shall  not  have 

the  boy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to 

slight 
His  mother  ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will 

go. 
And   I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring 

him  home  ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  ; 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one 

house. 
And  work  tor  William's  child,  until  he 

glows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd 

the  farm. 
The   door   was   off   the    latch :    they 

peep'd,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's 

knees. 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his 

arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 

cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  ;  and  the  lad 

stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that 

h'.ing 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by 

the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  but  when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her: 
And  Ailan  set  him   down,  and  Mary 

said  : 
"  O  Father  !  —  if  you  let  me  call  you 

so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I 

come 
For  Dora  :  take  her  back  ;  she  loves 

you  well. 
O  Sir,  when  William  died,  he   died  at 

peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he 

said, 


66 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


He  could  not  ever  me  his  marrying 

me  — 
I  had  been  a  patient  wife  :  but,  Sir,  he 

said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 

thus  : 
'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  '  and  may 

he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro'  ! '  Then 

he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that  I 

am  ! 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 

you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  leani 

to  slight 
His  father's  memorj' ;  and  take  Dora 

back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was   silence  in  the 

room  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 

sobs : 
"  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame. 

I  have  kill'd  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  him  — 

my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me  !  —  I  have  been  to 

blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd   him 

many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re- 
morse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred- 
fold : 
And  for  three   hours  he   sobb'd  o'er 

William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within   one   house   together ;  and  as 

years 
Went  forward,  Man,' took  another  mate; 
But   Dora    lived   unmarried    till    her 
death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

"The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd, 

and  not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.    Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 


I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm'd  like   a  hive   all   round    the 

narrow  quay. 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.     "  With  all 

my  heart," 
Said   Francis.      Then  we   shoulder'd 

thro'  the  swarm, 
And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the 

beach 
To  where    the  bay  runs   up  its  latest 
horn. 
We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly 
lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite  ;   so  by  many  a 

sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we 

reach'd 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd 

thro'  all 
The   pillar'd   dusk  of  sounding   syca- 
mores. 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  garden- 
er's lodge. 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 

walls 
And   chimneys   muffled   in   the   leafy 
vine. 
There,  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Fran- 
cis laid 
A  damask  napkin  WTOught  with  horse 

and  hound. 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of 

home, 
And,   half-cut-dowTi,    a  pasty  costly- 
made. 
Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  lev- 
eret lay. 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden 

yolks 
Imbedded   and    injellied ;    last,    with 

these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 
Prime,  which  I  knew ;  and  so  we  sat 

and  eat 
And  talk'd  old  matters  over :  who  was 

dead, 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and 

how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent 

the  hall  : 
Then   touch'd  upon    the  game,   how 
scarce  it  was 


WALKING    TO    THE  MAIL. 


67 


This    season  ,   glancing    thence,    dis- 

cuss'd  tlie  farm, 
The  fourfield  system,  and  the  price  of 

grain  ; 
And  struck  upon  the  coni-laws,  where 

we  split, 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With   heated   faces ;    till   he    laughM 

aloud  ; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 

hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine 

and  sang  : 
"  O,  who  would  fight  and  march  and 

countermarch, 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field. 
And  shovell'd  up  into  a  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows?  but  let  me  live 

my  life. 
"  O,  who  would  cast  and  balance  at 

a  desk, 
Perch'd  J  ike   a  crow  upon    a   three- 

legg'd  stool. 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his 

joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  ?  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"  Who  'd   ser\'e  the  state  ?  for  if  I 

carved  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native 

land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the 

sands ; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"  O,  who  would   love  ?    I  woo'd   a 

woman  once. 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern 

wind. 
And  all  my  heart  tum'd  from  her,  as  a 

thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea  :  but  let  me  live 

my  life." 
He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with 

mine  : 
(  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd  down  to  me,    when   old  Sir 

Robert's  pride, 
His  books  —  the  more  the  pity,  so  I 

said  — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — 

and  this  — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I 

knew. 


"  Sleep,    Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,   and 

dream  of  me : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm. 
And  sleejiing,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 

mine. 
"  Sleep,    Ellen,   folded   in  Emilia's 

arm  ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 
"  Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace 

upon  her  breast : 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against 

her  lip : 
I  go  to-night :  I  come  to-morrnw  mom. 
"  I  go,  but  I  return  :  I  would  I  were 
The   pilot  of  the    darkness    and    the 

dream. 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream 

of  me." 
So  sang  we  each  to  either.   Francis 

Hale, 
The  farmer's  son  who  lived  across  the 

bay, 
My  friend  ;  and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life. 
Did  what  I  would  ;  but  ere  the  night 

we  rose 
And  saunter' d  home  beneath  a  moon, 

that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reachd 
The  limit  of  the  hills  ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 

quay, 
The   town   was  hush'd   beneath    us : 

lower  down 
The  bay   was  oily-calm  ;   the  harbor- 
buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at 

heart. 


WALKING  TO   THE   MAIL. 

John.   I 'm  glad  I  walk'd.   How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago. 
The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  a 

fox. 
Is  yon  plantationwhere  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike  ? 

James.  Yes. 


68                                     WALKING    TO    THE   MAIL. 

John.    And  when  does  this  come  by  ? 

Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails 

James.    The  mail?     At  one  o'clock. 

him,"  What  !^ 

John.                             What  is  it  now  ? 

You're  flitting  1 "  "  Yes,  we  're  flitting," 

James.    A  quarter  to. 

says  the  ghost, 

John.        Whose  house  is  that  I  see  ? 

(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the 

the  beds,) 

vane  : 

"  0  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with 

Up  higher  with  the  yewtree  by  it,  and 

us  too  — 

half 

Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home 

A  score  of  .cables. 

again." 

James.    That  ?  Sir  Edward  Head's  : 

John.    He  left  his  wife  behind  ;  for 

But  he  's  abroad :   the  place  is  to  be 

so  I  heard. 

sold. 

James.    He  left  her,  yes.    I  met  my 

John.    O,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 

lady  once  : 

James.                 _               No,  sir,  he, 

A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 

Vex'd  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 

John.    O  yet  but  I  remember,    ten 

That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid 

years  back  — 

his  face 

'T  is  now  at  least  ten  years  —  and  then 

From  all  men,  and  commencing  with 

she  was  — 

himself, 

You   could   not  light    upon  a  sweeter 

He  lost  the  sense   that  handles  daily 

thing : 

life- 

A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a  pear 

That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less — 

In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  afoot 

And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for 

Lessening   in   perfect  cadence,  and  a 

change. 

skin 

John.    And  whither  ? 

As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 

Jajnes.    Nay,  who  knows?  he 's  here 

flowers. 

and  there. 

Janies.    Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades. 

But  let  him  go  ;  his  devil  goes  with  him. 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes. 

and  they  that  loved 

At  flrst  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and 

John.   What 's  that  ? 

dog. 

James.  You  saw  the  man  —  on  Mon- 

She was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager, 

day,  was  it  ?  — 

Out  of  her  sphere.  What  betwixt  shame 

There  by  the  humpback'd  willow  ;  half 

and  pride. 

stands  up 

New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her, 

And  bristles  ;  half  has  fall'n  and  made 

she  sour'd 

a  bridge  ; 

To  what  she  is  :  a  nature  never  kind  ! 

And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tick- 

Like men,  like  manners  :  like  breeds 

ling  trout  — 

like,  they  say. 

Caught  \wjlagrante—  what 's  the  Latin 

Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  manners 

word  ?  — 

next 

Delicto  :  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say. 

That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand  ; 

Was  haunted  with  a  jolly  ghost,  that 

Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the 

shook 

great. 

The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at 

Joh}i.    But  I  had  heard  it  was  this 

doors. 

bill  that  past. 

And  rummaged  like  a  rat :  no  servant 

And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove 

stay'd  : 

him  hence" 

The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and 

Javies.    That  was  the  last  drop  in  the 

chairs, 

cup  of  gall. 

And  all  his  household  stuff;  and  with 

I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 

his  boy 

brought 

Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the 

A  Chartist  pike.    You  should  have  seen 

tilt. 

him  wince 

EDWIN  MORRIS. 


As  from  a  venomous  thing  :  he  thought 

himselt" 
A  mark  tor  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  aery 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  aud 

his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs  ;  but,  sir, 

you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 

world  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have: 

and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age 

to  ajie 
With  much  the  same  result.     Now  I 

myself, 
A  Tor>'  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,   when  I  had  not  what  I 

would. 
I  was  at  school — a  college  in  the  South  : 
There  lived  a  flayfliut  near ;  we  stole 

his  fruit. 
His  hens,  his  eggs  ;  but  there  was  law 

for  lis  ; 
We  paid  in  person.    He  had  a  sow,  sir. 

She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  con- 
tent. 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun 

and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  college 

tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  cork- 
screw stair 
With  hand   and    rope   we    haled   the 

groaning  sow, 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 

pigg'd. 
Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother 

sow, 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved, 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them  —  but  for 

this  — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world — 
Might  have  been  happy  :  but  what  lot 

is  pure  ? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  tke  Niobe  of  swine, 
And  so  return'd  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 
John.    They  found  you  out  ? 
Jutnes.  Not  thev. 

J.'hn.  Well  — after  all  — 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man? 


His  nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  us, 

who  are  sound. 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the 

world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks 

or  whites. 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm. 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity — more  from  ignorance  than 

will. 
But  put  yoiu-  best  foot  forward,  or  1 

fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail  :  and  here 

it  comes 
With  five  at  top :  as  quaint  a  four-in- 
hand 
As  you  shall  see  —  three  piebalds  and 

a  roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS:   OR,  THE 
LAKE. 

O  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 
lake. 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of 

a  year. 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  !     I  was  a  sketcher  then  : 
See  here,  my  doing  :  curves  of  moun- 
tain, bridge. 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 

rock, 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock: 
And  here,   new-comers  in  an  ancient 

hold. 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  million- 

naires. 
Here  lived  the  Hills  —  a  Tudor-chim- 
neyed bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork    on   an   isle  of 
bowers. 

O  me,   my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 
lake 
With   Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward 

Bull 
The  curate  ;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names, 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss, 
and  fern. 


EDWIN  MORRIS. 


Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the 

rocks, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row, 

to  swim, 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good. 
His  own  —  I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for 

he  seem'd 
All-perfect,  finish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early  life, 
And  his  first  passion  ;  and  he  answer'd 

me  ; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  :  was 

he  not 
A  fuU-ceil'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  firom  all  flowers  ?     Poet-like  he 

spoke. 

"  My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I  ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to 

that, 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 

for  her. 
My  love  for   Nature  and  my  love  for 

her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew, 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the 

sun, 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move 

and  change 
With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark, 
And  either  twilight  and   the  day  be- 
tween ; 
For  daily  hope  fulfill'd,  to  rise  again 
Revolving  toward  fulfilment,   made  it 

sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  breathe,  to 

wake." 
Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he 

spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 

Bull : 

•'  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 
the  man. 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world. 

A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 

To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us 
up. 

And  keeps  us  tight  ;  but  these  unreal 
ways 

Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  in- 
deed 


Worn   threadbare.     Man    is    made  of 

solid  stuff. 
I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 

"  Parson,"  said  I,  "you  pitch  the  pipe 
too  low  : 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,   and  can 

run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his  : 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  hear  other  music  :  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such 

a  dream  ? " 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardonically. 

"Give? 
Give  all  thou  art,"  he  answer'd,  and  a 

light 
Of  laughter   dimpled   in   his   swarthy 

cheek  ; 
"  I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my 

heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin  :  my  ears  could 

hear 
Her  lightest  breaths  :  her  least  remark 

was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  \sise.     I  went 

and  came  ; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer 

land  ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.    Thrice-happy 

days  ! 
The   flower   of  each,    those  moments 

when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no 

more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a 
beast 

To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something 
jarr'd  ; 

Whether  he  spoke  too  largely  ;  that 
there  seem'd 

A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self- 
conceit, 

Or  over-smoothness  :  howsoe'erit  wa.s. 

He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said  : 

"  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  your- 
self alone 
Of  all  men  happy.     Shall  not  Love  to 
me. 


EDWIN  MORRIS. 


71 


As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right 

and  left  ? 
But  you  can  talk  :  yours  is  a  kindly  vein: 
I  have.  1  think,  —  Heaven  knows  —  as 

much  within  ; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought 

or  two. 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the 

greens 
Looks  out  of  place  :  't  is  from  uo  want 

in  her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distnist. 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modem 

mind 
Dissecting  passion.     Time  will  set  me 

right." 

So  spoke  I  knowing  not  the  things 

that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 

Bull: 
"  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of 

man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 
And  I  and  Edwin  laugh'd ;  and  now 

we  paused 
About  the  windings  ofthe  marge  to  hear 
The  soft  wind  -blowing  over  meadowy 

holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles  ;  and  now  we 

left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
l^y  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 
Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the 

sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their 

crags, 
My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  by 

him 
Tliat  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
Ihe  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'1'  is  true,  we  met ;  one  hour  1  had,  no 

more  : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous 

suit. 
The  close  "  Your  Letty,  only  yours  "  ; 

and  this 
Thrice  underscored.    The  friendly  mist 

of  morn 
Clupf^  to  the  lake.    I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beat- 
ing heart 


The  Sweet- Gale  rustle  round  the  shelv- 
ing keel  ; 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept :  she 

moved. 
Like    Proserpine   in   Enna,  gathering 

flowers : 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  ihrice  ; 

and  she. 
She  tuni'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swore 

faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet :  a  silent  cousin 

stole 
Upon  us  and  departed  :  "  Leave,"  she 

cried, 
"  O  leave  me  !  "     "  Never,  dearest, 

never :  here 
I  brave  the  worst "  :  and  while  we  stood 

like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they 

came 
Trustees    and     Aunts     and     Uncles. 

"  What,  with  him  !  " 
"  Go  "  (shrill 'd  the  cottonspinning  cho- 
rus) "  him  !  " 
I   choked.     Again  they    shriek'd   the 

burthen  "  Him  !  " 
Again    with    hands  of   wild   rejection 

"  Go  !  — 
Girl,  get  you  in  !  "    She  went  —  and  in 

one  month 
They  wedded  her  to  sixty   thousand 

pounds, 
To  lands   in  Kent  and   messuages   in 

York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery 

smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me. 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work  : 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and 

arms: 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the 

king 
To  greet   the   sheriff,    needless  cour- 
tesy ! 
I  read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying 

turn'd  : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below  : 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-button'd  to 

the  storm  ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have 

seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared 

to  hear. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


Nor  cared  to  hear?  perhaps  :  yet  long 
ago 

I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty ;  not  in- 
deed, 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but 
this, 

She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days  to 
me  ; 

For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London 
life 

She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the 
lake. 

While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing, 
or  then 

While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 

The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  sum- 
mer crag. 


ST.  SIMEON   STYLITES. 

Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 
From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust 

of  sin, 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce 

meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphe- 
my, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope   I 

hold 
Of  saintdom,   and  to  clamor,  mourn, 

and  sob, 
Battering   the   gates   of   heaven   with 

storms  of  prayer, 
Havemercy,Lord,and  take  awaymv  sin. 
Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 

God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten 

years, 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhumanpangs, 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,    fevers  and 

cold, 
In  coughs,  aches,    stitches,    ulcerous 

thrr'es  and  cramps, 
A  sign   l)etwixt  the   meadow   and  the 

cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillrr  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and 

sleet,  and  snow  ; 
And  I  had  hoped  that   ere  this  period 

closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 

thy  rest, 


Denying     not    these    weather-beaten 

limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and 

the  palm. 
O  take  the  meaning,  Lord  :  I  do  not 

breathe. 
Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  complaint. 
Pain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this, 

were  still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to 

bear, 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 

that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the 

first. 
For   I  was   strong   and   hale  of  body 

then  ; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt 

away. 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all 

my  beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drown'd  the   whoopings  of  the  owl 

with  sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  some- 
times saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown  ;  my  end  draws 

nigh  ; 
I  hope  my  end  draws   nigh  :  half  deaf 

I  am, 
So  that  I  scarce   can  hear  the  people 

hum 
About  the  column's  base,  and  almost 

blind. 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I 

know ; 
And   both  my   thighs  are  rotted  with 

the  dew ; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry, 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary 

head. 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from 

the  stone. 
Have   mercy,  mercy  :  take    away   my 

sin. 
O  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my 

soul, 
Who  may  be  saved  ?  who  is  it  may  be 

saved? 
Who  may  be  made   a  saint,   if  I  fail 

here? 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer'd  more 

than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy   martyrs  die   one 

death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified, 
Or  burn'd  in  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or 

sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs  ;  but   I  die 

here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of 

death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a 

way 
(And  heedfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More    slowly-painful    to   subdue   this 

home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and 

hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  O  my  God. 
For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I   bore  :  but  while    I 

lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 

there. 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from 

the  well, 
Twisted  as   tight  as  I  could  knot  the 

noose ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul. 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  mai-vell'd  greatly.     More 

than  this 
I  bore,  whereof,  O  God,  thou  knowest 

all. 
Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might 

grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain 

side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I 

lay 
Pent    in    a    roofless    close    of  ragged 

stones  ; 
Inswathed    sometimes    in    wandering 

mist,  and  twice 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and 

sometimes 
Suckin'?  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eat- 
ing not, 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those 

that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and 

live : 


And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  mira- 
cles, 
Whereof   my  fame   is  loud    amongst 

mankind, 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.  Thou, 

O  God, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy  ;  cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,  that   I  might  be  more  alone 

with  thee, 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of 

twelve  ; 
And  twice  three  years  I   crouch'd  on 

one  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure  ;  last  of  all,  I  grew, 
Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to 

this, 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 
1  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much 

as  this  — 
Or  else  I  dream  —  and  for  so  long  a 

time, 
If  I   mav  measure   time  by  yon  slow 

light. 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 

crowns  — 
So  much  —  even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well. 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 

say, 
"  Fall   down,    O   Simeon  :   thou    hast 

suffer'd  long 
For  ages  and   tor  ages  1 "  then   they 

prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro', 
Perplexing  me  with  lies  ;  and  oft  I  fall. 
Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  leth- 
argies. 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time 

are  choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and  all 

the  saints 
Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men 

on  eartli 
House    in    the   shade  of  comfortable 

roofs. 
Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food, 
And    wear  warm    clothes,   and   even 

beasts  have  stalls, 
I,  'tween   the    spring  and  downfkll  o/ 
the  light, 


74 


ST.  SIMEON-  STYLITES. 


Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hun- 
dred umes. 

To  Christ,  the  Vh'gin  Mother,  and  the 
Saints  ; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a  Httle  sleep, 

I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle ;  I  am  wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with 
crackling  frost. 

I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my 
back; 

A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck  ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the 
cross, 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I 
die  : 

0  mercy,  mercy  !  wash  away  my  sin. 
O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I 

am  ; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in 

sin  : 
'T  is  their  own  doing ;  this  is  none  of 

mine ; 
Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I  to  blame  for 

this. 
That  here  come  those  that  worship  me  ? 

Ha  !  ha  ! 
They    think    that     I    am    somewhat. 

What  am  I  ? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint. 
And   bring   me  offerings    of  fruit  and 

flowers :  ■ 

And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 

here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 

more 
Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 

names 
Are  register'd  and  calendar'd  for  saints. 
Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  tliis  ? 

1  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  mira- 
cles. 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd  ;  but 
w  hat  of  that  ? 

It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the 
saints. 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ;  but 
what  of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise  :  for  you  may  look  on  me. 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to 
God. 

Speak  !  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or 
maim'd? 


I  think  you  know  I  have  some  powc» 

with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak 

his  wish. 
Yes,  I  can   heal   him.     Power  goes 

forth  from  me. 
They   say  that  they  are  heal'd.     Ah, 

hark  1  they  shout 
"  St.  Simeon  Stylites."     Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.    O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.     If  this  be. 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved? 
This  is  not   told  of  any.     They  were 

saints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved  ; 
Yea,    crown'd   a   saint.      They   shout, 

"Behold  a  saint !" 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon  !   This  dull  chrys- 
alis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope 

ere  death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 

God  hath  now 
Sponged  and   made  blank  of  crimeful 

record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ;  I,  Simeon, 
The   watcher  on  the   column   till   the 

end  ; 
I,   Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine 

bakes ; 
I,  "whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours 

become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here 

proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.     On  tlie  coals 

I  lay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin  :  all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.    Devils  pluck'd  my 

sleeve  ; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I    smote   them    with    the  cross ;  they 

swarm'd  again. 
In    bed    like     monstrous    apes    they 

crush'd  my  chest : 
They  flapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read  :  I 

saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my 

book : 


THE    TALKING  OAK. 


•n 


With  colt-like   whinny  and  with  hog- 
gish whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way 

was  left, 
And    by    this    way   I   'scaped    them. 

Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and 

with  thonis  ; 
Smite,   shrink  not,   spare   not.     If  it 

may  be,  fast 
Whole    Lents,    and   pray.      I    hardly, 

with  slow  steps. 
With  slow,   faint  steps,  and   m^uch  ex- 
ceeding pain, 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 

that  still 
Sing  in  mine  ears.     But  yield  not  me 

the  praise : 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought 

fit. 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 

world. 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind. 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do  not 

say. 
But  that  a  time  may  come  —  yea,  even 

now,  , 

Now,   now,   his  footsteps    smite    the 

threshold  stairs 
Of  life  —  I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When   you   may  worship  me  without 

reproach  ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land. 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my 

dust. 
And  bum  a  fi-agrant  lamp  before  my 

bones. 
When  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious 

saints. 
While    I    spake  then,    a    sting   of 

shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloud- 
like change, 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made 

thick 
These  heavy,  homy  eyes.     The  end  ! 

the  end  ! 
Surely    the    end  !      What 's   here  ?    a 

shape,  a  shade, 
A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  there 
Tliat  holds  a  crown?    Come,  blessed 

brother,  come. 
I  know  thy  glittering  face.     I  waited 

long; 


My  brows  are  ready.     What     deny  if 

now? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw   nigh.     So  I 

clutch  it.     Christ ! 
'T  is  gone  :  't  is  here  again  ;  the  crown  ! 

the  crown  ! 
So  now  't  is  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me. 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet  !  sweet !    spikenard,  and  balm, 

and  frankincense. 
Ah  !  let  me  not  be  tbol'd,  sweet  saints  : 

I  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 

for  Heaven. 
Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of 

God,       . 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,   and  lean  a  ladder  on  the 

shaft, 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home. 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people  ;  let  them 

take 
Example,   pattem  :  lead  them  to  thy 

light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

Once  more  the  pate  behind  me  falls ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies. 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  : 

And  ah  !  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began. 

Ere  that,  which  in  me  bum'd. 
The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 

Could  hope  itself  retum'd  ; 
To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spuke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 
For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 

And  told  him  of  my  choice. 
Until  lie  plagiarized  a  heart. 

And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 


THE    TALKING  OAK. 


Tho'what  hewhisper'd,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
'T  were  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  tcpmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse. 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.  — 

"  O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year. 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was 
fat, 

And,  issuing;  shorn  and  sleek. 
Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 

The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

"  Ere  yet,  in  scom  of  Peter' s-pence. 
And  number'd  bead,  and  shrift. 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence, 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift : 

'*  And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
.     Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 
When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five  ; 

"And  all  that  from  the  town  would 
stroll, 

Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 

Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

"  The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 
And  others,  passing  praise. 

Strait-laced,  but  all-too-fuU  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays  : 

"  And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 
Of  beauties,  that  were  born 

In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop. 
Or  while  the  patch  was  worn ; 


"And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay,  | 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd  i 

The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day,  \ 

And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft.  1 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick  | 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall)  j 

This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick,  I 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all ;  i 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law,  i 
Have  faded  long  ago  ;  i 

But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 
Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"  From  when   she   gamboll'd   on  the 
greens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

"  Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade. 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

"  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit. 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

O,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace  ; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  n3'^«, 

That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows. 
Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 

To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"  O  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town  ; 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

"  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy  : 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is. 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 


"  She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 

But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight  : 

She  kiss'd  nie  once  again." 


THE    TALKING  OAK. 


77 


**An  hour  had  past  —  and.  sitting  straight 
Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise, 

^er  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

'  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home. 

And  on  the  roof  she  went, 
l.nd  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 

'  She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

*  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing. 

And  in  the  cliase  grew  wild, 
As  close  as  mi^jht  be  would  he  cling 

About  the  darling  child  : 

"  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and 
rose, 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 

"  And  here  she   came,  and  round  me 
play'd. 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  '  giant  bole  '  ; 

"And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

That  here  beside  me  stands. 
That  round  me,  clas]5ing  eacli  in  each, 

She  might  have  lock'id  her  hands. 

"  Yet  seem'd  the   pressure   thrice  as 
sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold. 
Or  when  I  feel  about  mv  feet 

The  harried  briony  fold." 

O  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 

And  shadow  .Suinner-chace  ! 
Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 


But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  bought  ? 

"  O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine. 

And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she 
found. 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

"  A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crejit. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse. 
But  1  believe  she  wepL 

"Then  flush'd   her  cheek  with  rosy 
light. 

She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight : 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind. 
That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  woml  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind. 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd  : 

"  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discem'd. 
Like  those  blind  nnjtions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet's  waving  balm  — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 
The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

■'  L  rooted  here  among  the  groves. 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  aniher-s  and  with  dust : 

•'  For  ah  I  my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  iK>ets  talk, 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the 
leal", 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"  But  could  L  as  in  times  I'oregone, 
From  spray,  and  braiicli,  and  stem. 

Have  suck'il  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

"  She  had  not  found  ne  so  remiss ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
1  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 

With  usury  thereto." 


78 


THE    TALKING  OAK. 


O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea, 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 
O  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well  ; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 
"  'T  is  little  more  :  the  day  was  warm  : 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play. 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm, 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 
"  Her    eyelids    dropp'd    their    silken 
eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  Hfe  — 
The  nmsic  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  luU'd  tjiem  in  my  own. 

*'  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly  ; 

"  A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine  ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck. 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

"Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread, 
And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 

Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head. 
An  acorn- in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up. 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift  — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"  I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass, 

O  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

"  O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 


Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace. 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest. 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee. 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint. 
That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet  ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  under  deeply  strikes  1 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes  1 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath. 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage  morn  may  fall. 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair.    ' 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme. 
And  i^raise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime, 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 


LOVE   AND  DUTY. 


79 


In  which  the  swarthy  ringdove  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke  ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND   DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly 

close. 
What    sequel  ?     Streaming  eyes  and 

breaking  hearts? 
Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 
Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round  of 

time 
Still  father  Truth  ?    O  shall  the  brag- 
gart shout 
For  some    blind  glimpse   of  freedom 

work  itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to 

law 
System    and    empire  ?     Sin   itself  be 

found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on   the 

S-m? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust?  or  year  by  year 

alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 
Nightmare   of  youth,   the   spectre   of 

himself? 
If  this  were   thus,   if  this,   indeed, 

were  all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart. 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless 

days. 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro. 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  nottiie  nobler  thro'  thy  love? 
O  three  times  less  unworthy  !  likewise 

thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than 

thy  years. 
The  Sun  will  run   his  orbit,  and  the 

Moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself 

will  bring 
Tho    drooping    flower    of  knowledge 

changed  to  fruit 


Of  wir,dom.     Wait :  my  faith  is  large 

in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  per- 
fect end. 
Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill 

for  good  ? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime?    To 

that  man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since   I  knew 

the  right 
And  did  it  ;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a 

man. 
—  So  let  me  think  't  is  well  for  thee 

and  me  — 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my 

heart  so  slow 
To  feel  it  !     For  how  hard  it  seem'd 

to  me, 
When   eyes,   love-languid    thro'  half- 
tears,  would  dwell 
One    earnest,    earnest   moment  upon 

mine. 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !  when  thy  low 

voice. 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 

keep 
My  own  full-tuned,  —  hold  passion  in 

a  leash. 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy 

neck, 
And    on     thy    bosom,    (deep-desired 

relief !) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 

weigh'd 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my  soul! 
For  Love  himself  took  part  against 

himself 
To  warn   us  oflf,  and  Duty  loved  of 

Love  — 
O   this  world's   curse, — beloved   but 

hated  —  came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace 

and  mine, 
And  cr\'ing,  "  Who  is  this?  behold  thy 

bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To    alien    ears,  I    did    not    speak  to 

these  — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  ; 
Hard   is  my  doom    and   thine :  thou 

knowest  it  all. 


8o 


THE    GOLDEN   YEAR. 


Could  Love  part  thus?   was  it   not 

well  to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once  ?     It  could  not 

but  be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  good, 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 

the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone. 
And  to  the  want,  that  hoilow'd  all  the 

heart. 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an 

eye, 
That  bu'rn'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such 

tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those   caresses,   when   a  hundred 

times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the 

last. 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived 

and  died. 
Then   follow'd  counsel,  comfort,   and 

the  words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speak- 
ing truth ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  over- 
head 
The   lights   of  sunset   and   of  sunrise 

mix'd 
In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night, 

that  paused 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us  ;  stars  that 

hung 
Love-charm'd  to  listen  :  all  the  wheels 

of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had 

come. 
O  then  like  those,  who  clench  their 

nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There— closing  like  an  individual  life  — 
In   one   blind  cry  of  passion   and  of 

pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death. 
Caught    up   the    whole   of    love   and 

utter'd  it. 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live  —  yet  live  — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  know- 
ing all 


Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will  — 
Live  hapjiy  ;  tend  thy  flowe~s  ;  be  tend- 
ed by 
My  blessing  !     Should    n  y    Shadow 

cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it 

thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest 

hold. 
If  not  to  be  forgotten  —  not  at  once  — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross  thy 

dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks 

content. 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth, 
And   point   thee  forward   to  a  distant 

light. 
Or  seem   to   lift  a  burthen   from   thy 

heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake 

refresh'd. 
Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp 

hath  grown 
Full   quire,    and   morning   driv'n   her 

plough  of  pearl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 

rack. 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern 

sea. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 

Leonard  wrote  : 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales  : 
Old  James  was  with  nic  :   we  that  day 

had  been 
Up  Snowdon  ;  and  I  wish'd  for  Leon- 
ard there. 
And  found  him  in  Llanberis  :  then  we 

crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber'd  half 

way  up 
The  counter  side  ;  and  that  same  song 

of  his 
He  told  me  ;  for  I  banter'd  him,  and 

swore 
They   said   he   lived    shut   up  within 

himself, 
A   tongue-tied    Poet  in   the    feverous 

days. 
That,  setting  the  how  imeck  before  the 

how. 


THE   GOLDEN  YEAR. 


8i 


Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse- 

leecli,  "'give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me 

the  herd  1 
To  which  "  rhey  call  me  what  they 

will,"  he  said : 
But  I  was  born  too  late  :  the  fair  new 

forms, 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an 

age. 
Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be 

caught  — 
Catch   me   who  can,   and    make    the 

catcher  crown'd  — 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.     Let  it  be. 
But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These  measured  words,    my  work  of 

yestermom. 
"  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but 

all  tilings  move  : 
The   Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother 

Sun  ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  in  her 

ellipse  ; 
And  human  things  returning  on  them- 
selves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 

year. 
"  Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new 

thought  can  bud. 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they 

flower. 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore. 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their 

march, 
And   slow  and    sure    comes    up    the 

golden  year. 
"  When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in 

mounded  heaps. 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly 

melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 
And  light  shall   spread,  and  man   be 

liker  man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 
"  Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ?  wrens 

be  wrens  ? 
If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of 

that  ? 
The  wonder  of  the   eagle   were    the 

less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading   up   the   golden 

year. 

6 


"  Fly  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the 

Press  ; 
Fly  happy  with  the   mission   of   the 

Cross  ; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  haven- 
ward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 

of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 
"  But  we  grow  old.    Ah  !  when  shall 

all  men's  good 
Be  each   man's    rule,    and    universal 

Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the 

sea. 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year  ? " 
Thus    far    he    flow'd,    and  ended : 

whereupon 
"Ah,   folly!"  in  mimic  cadence   an- 

swer'd  James  — 
"  Ah,  folly  !  for  it  lies  so  far  away. 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's 

time, 
'T  is  like  the  second  world  to  us  that 

live ; 
'T  were  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on 

Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 

the  rocks 
And  broke  it,  —  James,  —  you  know 

him,  —  o !d,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his 

feet. 
And  like   an    oaken   stock   in  winter 

woods, 
O'erflourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis  : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

"  What  stuff  is  this  ! 
O'd  writers  push'd  the  hapi>y  season 

back,  — 
The   more  fools  they,  —  we   forward: 

dreamers  both  : 
You  most,  tiiat  in  an  age,  when  every 

hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the 

death. 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seeds- 
man, rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not 

dip 
His  hand  into   the   bag:   but   well    I 

know 


82 


UL  YSSES. 


That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels 

he  works, 
This  same  grand   year  is  ever  at  the 

doors." 
He  spoke  ;  and,  high  above,  I  heard 

them  blast 
The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great 

echo  tlap 
And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to 

bluff. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
Hy  this  stiil  hearth,  among  these  bar- 
ren crags, 
Match'd  wirfi  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel :   I  will  drink 
Liic  to  the  lees  :  all  times  1  have  en- 

^oy'd 
Greatly,   have    suffer'd    greatly,  both 

with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore, 

and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea  :  I  am  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;   cities 

of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  gov- 
ernments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them 

all  ;  _ 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my 

peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  ah  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose 

margin  fades 
Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  jiause,  to  make  an  end, 
'I'o  rust  unbumish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  1 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something 

more, 


A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it 

were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge,    like  a  sinking 

star, 
Beyond   the   utmost  bound  of  hiunan 

thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telema- 

chus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the 

isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 

mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the 

sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When    I    am    gone.     He  works    his 

work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs 

her  sail : 
There    gloom    the    dark  broad   seas. 

My  mariners, 
Souls    that   have  toil'd,  and  wrought, 

and  thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and   the   sunshine,   and 

opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and 

I  are  old  ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere 

the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be 

done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 

Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the 

rocks  : 
The  long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon 

climbs  :  the  deep 
Moans     round    with     many     voices. 

Come,  my  friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows  ;  for  my  purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL.  83 


Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 

down  : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy 

Isles, 
And  sec  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 

knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ;  and 

tho' 


We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in 

old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which 

we  are,  we  are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made   weak    by   time    and    fate,   but 

strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to 

yield. 


LOCKSLEY    HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  't  is  early  mom  : 

Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle  hem. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call. 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall  ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts. 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 

Did  i  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade, 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  I'ime  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed  ; 

When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  cou'd  see  ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.  — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast  ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove  ; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me. 

Trust  me,  cousin,  ail  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  tum'd —  her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  haze!  eyes  — 

Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong"  ; 

Saying,  "  Dost  thou  love  ma,  cousin?"  weeping,  "  I  have  loved  thee  long."' 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  tum'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 


84  LOCKS  LEY  HALL. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fuhiess  of  the  Spring. 
Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 
O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !    O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 

0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !    O  the  barren,  barren  shore  ! 
Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue  I 
Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?  —  having  known  me  —  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine  ! 
Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day. 
What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 
As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  do\\Ti. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  sliall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy :  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  fiurpose,  easy  things  to  understand  — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 

Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  I 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule  ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool  1 

Well  —  'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster  !  —  Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved- 

Would  to  God  —  for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  wliich  bears  but  bitter  fruit? 

1  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 
Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 
Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind? 

Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind? 
I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  : 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 
Can  I  tliink  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly  :  love  is  love  forevermore. 
Comfort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  son-ow  is  remembering  happier  things. 
Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  puf  to  proof, 
In  tiie  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 
Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  tliou  art  staring  at  the  wall. 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 


■'  Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  clown  :    my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast.' 


LOCKSLEV  HALL. 

Then  a  hand  shall  lass  before  thee,  pointing  to  liis  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widow'd  marriage  pillows,  to  the  tears  tiiat  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shall  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years. 

And  a  song  t'roni  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  oi  thine  cars  ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  tiiee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 

'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine  ;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  :  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mothers  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  Ills  :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  leelings  —  she  herself  was  not  exempt - 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suti'er'd"  —  Perish  in  thy  self-contempt  1 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy  !  wherefore  should  I  care? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 

Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  i^eys. 

Every  gate  is  ihrong'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overtlow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  .'' 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels. 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness.'     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Moilier-Age  I 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife. 

When  I  heard  my  days  betbre  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  lite  ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  tliat  the  coming  years  would  yield. 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  tirst  he  leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  llaring  like  a  dreary  dasvn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men  ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new  : 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  sliall  do; 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see. 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue  ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  nisiiing  warm, 

With  the  standards  ©f  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm : 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL. 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 

111  the  Parliament  ot'  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry, 

Left  me  with  tlie  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint. 

Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point ; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs. 

And  the  thouglits  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  -world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-hom. 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn  : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd  string? 

I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain  — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain  : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine. 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd  ; —    • 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  seltish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit —  there  to  wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies. 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o"er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  melhinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing-space 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  liair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  tlie  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks. 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books  — 


r 


GODIVA. 


Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I  know  my  words  are  wild, 

But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains. 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 

I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one. 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon  I 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  : 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun  — 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 

Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall  ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a^'apor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt. 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  1  go. 


GODIVA. 

I  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 
J  h^mg  wUh  grooms  and  porters  on 

the  bridge^ 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires ;  and 

there  I  shaped 
The  city^s  ancient  legend  into  this  :  — 
Not  only  we,   the  latest    seed    of 

Time, 
New   men,   that   in   the   flying    of  a 

wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that 

prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 

people  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them   overtax'd  ; 

but  she 
Did  more,  and  under^vent,  and  over- 
came, 
The  woman   of  a   thousand  summers 

back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim   Earl,  who 

ruled 
In  Coventry  :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 


Upon   his  town,  and  all   the  mothers 

brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  "  If  we  pay, 

we  starve  ! " 
She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone. 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hiir 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 

tears. 
And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax, 

they  starve." 
Whereat    he    stared,    replying,    half- 
amazed, 
"  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger 

ache 
For  such  as  these  ?  "  —  "  But  I  would 

die,"  said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and 

by  Paul  : 
Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  here.ir  ; 
"  O  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  !  "  —  "Aia.s  !  " 

she  said, 
"  But  prove  me  \Vhat  it  is  I  would  not 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's 

hand, 
He  answer'd,  "  Ride  you  naked  thro' 

the  town, 
And  I  repeal  it  "  ;  and  nodding,  as  in 

scorn, 
He   parted,  with  great  strides  among 

his  dogs. 
So  left  alone,  the   passions   of  her 

mind. 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift 

and  blow, 
INIade  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth. 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trum- 
pet, all 
The  hard  condition  ;  but  that  she  would 

loose 
The  people  :  therefore,  as  they  loved 

her  well, 
From  then  till   noon   no   foot    should 

pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing  ;  but 

that  all 
Should  keep   within,    door  shut,  and 

window  barr'd. 
Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 

and  there 
Unclasp'd   the  wedded  eagles  of  her 

belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a 

breath 
She  linger'd,    looking  like  a  summer 

moon 
Half-dipt   in  cloud :   anon   she   shook 

her  head, 
And   shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to 

her  knee : 
Unclad  herself  in  haste ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ;  and,    like  a  creeping  sun- 
beam, slid 
From    pillar    unto    pillar,    until    she 

reach 'd 
The   gateway ;    there   she    found   her 

palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 
Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 

chastity  : 
The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she 

rode. 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 

for  fear. 
The   little  wide-mouth'd   heads  upon 

the  spout 


Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  :  the  barking 

cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame  :  her  palfrey's 

footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'   her   pulses  :    the 

blind  walls 
Were  full   of  chinks  and  holes  ;  and 

overhead 
Fantastic    gables,    crowding,    stared : 

but  she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 

saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from 

the  field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in 

the  wall. 
Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 

chastity  : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thank- 
less earth. 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd  —  but  his  eyes,  before  they  had 

their  will, 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his 

head. 
And  dropt  before  him.     So  the  Pow- 
ers, who  wait 
On    noble    deeds,    cancell'd  a  sense 

misused  ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd  :  and 

all  at  once, 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound, 

the  shameless  noon 
Was    clash'd   and   hammer'd   from    a 

hundred  towers. 
One   after  one  :    but    even  then   she 

gain'd 
Her  bower ;  whence   reissuing,  robed 

and  crown 'd. 
To  meet   her  lord,  she   took  the  tax 

away, . 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery. 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ?  " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said ; 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 


THE    TWO   VOICES. 


To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply  : 

"  I'o-day  I  saw  the  dragon-tiy 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
or  his  old  husk  :  iVom  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

"  He  dried  his  wings  :  like  gauze  they 

grew  : 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  tlash  of  light  he  tlew." 

I  said,  "  When  first  the  world  began, 
Voung  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

"  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast." 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied  : 

''  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride  : 

Look  up  thro'  night :  the  world  is  wide. 

"  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

"  Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and 

fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  ?  " 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

"  Tho'  thou  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind, 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind."  j 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall :  I 

"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball  j 

Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  wliich  he  answer'd  scoffingly  :  | 

"  Good  soul  !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee,       j 
Who  '11  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ?  | 

"  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense,  I 

When  ihy  peculiar  difference  \ 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense  ? "         | 

I  would  have  said,  "Thou  canst  not     ! 

know,"  I 

Put  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 

Rain'd  ihro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me : 
'•  ihou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery. 
Surely  'twere  better  not  to  be. 


"  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 
Thou  canst  not  think,   but   thou  wilt 
weep." 

I  said,  "  The   years  with   change   ad- 
vance : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

"  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might 

take, 
Ev'n  yet. "     But  he  :  "  What  drug  can 

make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake  ?  " 

I  wept,  "Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow  ; 

"And    men,    thro'   novel    spheres  of 

thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 

"Yet,"  said  the  secret  voice,  "some 

time. 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"  Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn   for 

light, 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight. 
Would  sweep   the   tracts   ot  day  and 

night. 

"  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her 

cells, 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells. 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "  All  the  years  invent  ; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  houi 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? 

"  The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said. 
"  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  "i 


90 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


"Or  make  that  mom,  from  his  cold 

crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with   full   daylight    glebe    and 

town  ? 

"•  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge,   dream'd   not 
yet. 

"  Thou  hast  not  gain'd  a  real  height, 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light. 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

"  'T  were    better    not   to   breathe    or 

speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak. 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 
Asks   what    thou   lackest,  thought  re- 

sign'd, 
A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  "When  I  am  gone  away, 
*  He  dared  not  tarry,'  men  will  say. 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay." 

"  This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"  To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live   and 

sigh. 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

"  Sick  art  thou  — a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men    love    thee  ?    Art  thou   so 

bound 
To  men,    that    how    thy    name   may 

sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  ? 

"  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fill'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

"  Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
"  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

"  Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warni'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise. 


"  When,    wide    in  soul   and   bold   of 

tongue. 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

"  I  sung  the  joyful  Paan  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear — 

"  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife, 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the'knite. 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

"  Some  hidden  principle  to  move. 
To  put  together,  part  and  prove, 
And   mete   the  bounds    of   hate   and 
love  — 

"  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That     the     whole     mind    might    orb 
about  — 

"  To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
I'he  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe. 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law  : 

"  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed. 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
PVuitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"To  pass,  when  Life   her  light  with- 
draws. 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause. 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  cause  — 

"  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own, 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known, 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown  ; 

"Whose  eyes  are  dim  with   glorious 

tears, 
When,  soii'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears  : 

"  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke. 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke." 

"Yea!  "said   the  voice,  "thy  dream 

was  good, 
While  thou  abodcst  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

"If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flov.er. 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  ? 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


"  Then  comes  the  check,  the  change, 

the  fall. 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
I'here  is  one  remedy  tor  all. 

"  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a 

chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and 

birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 

"That  men   with  knowledge   merely 

play'd, 
I  told  thee  —  hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

"  Much  less   this  dreamer,   deaf  and 

blind. 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to 

find. 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

"  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  dirferent  threads,  and   late  and 

soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"  Cr\',  faint  not :  either  Truth  is  bom 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn. 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

"  Cry,  faint  not,   climb  :  the  summits 

slope 
Beyond   the   furthest  flights   of  hope. 
Wrapt  in   dense   cloud  from  base   to 

cope. 

"  Sometimes  a  little  comer  shines. 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

'■'■  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fiil  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 
Thou  know'st  not.     Shadows  thou  dost 

strike, 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like  ; 

"  And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 


"  Than    angels.     Cease    to  wail  and 

brawl ! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"O  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die  t 

"  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

"  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven. 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

"  Who,  rowing  hard  aga'inst  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dreani  it  was  a  dream  ; 

"  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  chamels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

"  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

"  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 
Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 
Tho'  cursed  and  scom'd,  and  bruised 
with  stones : 

"  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt  : 

"  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were 

fix'd, 
The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

I  said,  "  I  toil  beneath  the  curse, 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new  : 

"  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 
Be  fix'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence  : 

"  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here  ; 
Naked  I  go.  and  void  of  cheer: 
What  is  it  tliat  I  may  not  fear  ? " 


92 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


"  Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 
"  His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath 

died  ; 
Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride  ? 

"  Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  ? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"  His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast : 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek  : 
The'   one   should   smite   him   on   the 

cheek. 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

"  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame,  — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave. 
Nor,  moaning,  houseliold  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

"  High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim  : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim  : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
*'  These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 

dread, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"  The  sap  dries  up  :  the  plant  declines. 
A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 
Know  I  not  Death  ?  the  outward  signs  ? 

"  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few  ; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew. 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

"  From  grave   to   grave   the    shadow 

crept  : 
In  her  still  place  tlie  morning  wept : 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

"  The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head  : 
'  Omega  !  thou  art  Lord,'  they  said, 
'  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease. 
Should  that  plain  fact,   as  taught  by 

these, 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 


"  Who  forged  that  other  influence. 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence. 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"  Here  sits  he  shaping  -wings  to  fly  : 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mysterj' : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  :  many  things  perplex, 
With   motions,    checks,   and  counter- 
checks. 

"He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something 

good. 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

"  Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn. 
Half-shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

"  Ah  !  sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out. 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
Witli  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain, 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

"  The  doubt  would  rest,   I   dare  not 

solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  re\^lve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve." 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against,_ 
Falls   back,    the   voice  with  which    I 

fenced 
A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced  : 

''Where   wert  thou  \\hen   thy  father 

play'd 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ? 

"  A  merry  boy  they  called  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


93 


"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 
To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 
Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man  : 
"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days  : 
"A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  !  " 
"  These  words,"  I  said,  "  are  like  the 

rest. 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 
"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  might'st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end  ; 

"  Yet  how  should  1  for  certain  hold, 
Because  my  memory'  is  so  cold. 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

"  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain. 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  ft^om  the  brain. 

"  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found. 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

"  As  old  mythologies  relate. 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  fi-om  state  to  state. 

"  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then. 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 

As  one  before,  remember  much. 

For  those  two  likes  might   meet  and 

touch. 
"  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace  ; 

"  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 

In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of 

night. 
"  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came  — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

"  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  tbrgot  ? 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 


"  And  men,   whose   reason  long  was 

blind. 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

"Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free. 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be 
Incompetent  of  memory : 

"  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time. 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  ? 

"  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems. 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams. 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

"  Of  something  felt,   like   something 

here  ; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 

The  still  voice  laugh'd.    "  I  talk,"  said 

he, 
"  Not  with  thy  dreams.     Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality." 
"  But  thou,"  said  I,  "  hast  miss'd  thy 

mark. 
Who  sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark. 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 
"  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new  ? 
"  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 
No    life   that    breailies    with    human 

breath 
Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 
"  'T  is  life,  whereof   our    nerves    are 

scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  tiie  voice,  in  quiet  scorn  : 
"  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn." 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  ligiit  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal. 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 


94 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measur'd  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 
The  liLtle  maiden  walk'd  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on  : 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none  : 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  "  Be  of  better  cheer." 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

"  I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 

Like  an  ^Eolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side  : 
"  What    is    it    thou    knowest,    sweet 

voice  ?  "  I  cried. 
"  A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied  : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,    like    the    rainbow    from    the 
shower. 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
'I'hat  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went, 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours, 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers  : 
You   scarce   could    see   the   grass  for 
flowers. 


I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along  : 
The  woods  were  fill'd  so  full  with  song, 
There   seem'd  no  room  for  sense   of 
wrong. 

So  variously  seem'd  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice. 
Than    him    that  said,  "  Rejoice  !   re- 
joice !  " 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


PROLOGUE. 


O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak  : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,    dreaming    on    your    damask 
cheek. 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming —  and,  behind, 

A  summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream 'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm. 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had. 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw, 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face. 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye  — 
The   rhymes    are   dazzled  from  their 
place. 

And  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 


THE   SLEEPING   PALACE. 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes    and  reclothes    the    happy 
plains  ; 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf. 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl'd. 

Faint  murmurs   from   the   meadows 
come. 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


95 


Soft  lustre  bathes  the  rans;e  of  ums 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns, 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 

On  the  hrill-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower. 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 


Roof-haunting    martins    warm     their 
eggs  : 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily  :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings. 

That  watch  the   sleepers  from  "the 
wall. 

4- 
Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd  ;  and 
there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task. 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair  : 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his  : 

Her  hps  are  sever'd  as  to  speak  : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  : 

The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass. 

The  beams,   that  through  the  oriel 
shine. 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

And    beaker    brimm'd   with    noble 
wine. 
Each  b.aron  at  the  banquet  sleeps. 

Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 


All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood  ; 
Thorns,  ivie?,  woodbine,  misletoes. 
And    grapes    with   bunches   red  as 
blood  ; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 
Close-matted,    bur  and    brake   and 
brier. 


And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen. 
High  up,  the  topmost  palace-spire. 


When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  bom  again, 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigli. 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the   soul  of 
men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and   Pleasure,  Hope   and 
Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE    SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 


Year  after  year  unto  her  feet. 

She  lying  on  her  couch  aione. 
Across  the  purpled  coverlet. 

The   maiden's   jet-black    hair    has 
growTi, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming    from  a    braid    of 
pearl  : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm. 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  jnould 
Languidly  ever  ;  and,  amid 

Her    full    black  ringlets   downward 
roll'd, 
Glows  fortli  each  softly-shadow'd  arm 

With  bracelets  ofthe  diamond  bright  : 
Her  constant  beauty  dotli  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 


She   sleeps :  her    breathings    are  not 
heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  :  on  eitiier  hand  npswells 

The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prcst : 
She     sleeps,    nor   dreams,    but    ever 
dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


96 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


THE   ARRIVAL. 

All  precious  things,  discover'd  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth  ; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws    the    veil    from    hidden 
worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

2. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close. 

Or  scatter'd  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead  :_ 

"  They     perish'd     in    their    daring 
deeds." 
This  proverH  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"  The  ma^iy  fail :  the  one  succeeds." 

3- 
He  comes,    scarce   knowing  what   he 
seeks  ! 
He   breaks    the  hedge  :    he    enters 
there  : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks  : 

He   trusts    to   light   on    something 
fair ; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 
And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  eai\ 

4- 
More   close   and    close    his  footsteps 
wind  ; 
The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 

He    stoops — to   kiss    her  —  on  his 
knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 
How  dark  those   hidden  eyes  must 
be  !  " 


THE   REVIVAL. 


A  touch,  a  kiss  !  the  charm  was  snapt. 
There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 


And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt. 

And     barking     dogs,    and     crowing 
cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall. 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

2. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew. 
The     butler     drank,     the     steward 
scrawl'd. 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew. 
The   parrot   scream'd,    the   peacock 
squall'd, 
The    maid    and    page    renew'd   their 
strife, 
The  palace  bang'd,  and  buzz'd,  and 
clackt. 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke. 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd, 
And  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
spoke, 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard  ! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 


"  Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

i  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply  : 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


THE   DEPARTURE, 


And  on  her  lover's  arm  .she  leant. 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purj^le  rim. 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


97 


"  I  'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  tor  such  another  kiss  "  ; 
"O  wake  tbrever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar. 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

3- 
"  O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !  " 

"  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !  " 
"  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  !  " 

"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the 
dead  ! " 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And   whither  goest   thou,    tell    me 
where? " 
*'  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there. " 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  tar  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  foUow'd  him. 


MOR.VL. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there. 
Go,  look  m  any  glass  and  say. 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
O,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The    wildweed-flower     that    simply 
blows  ? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find. 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend  ; 
So  't  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 
7 


l'envoi. 

I. 
You  shake  your  head.    A  random  string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well  —  were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men  ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again  ; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more. 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars. 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore  ; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours. 
The  vast  Republics  th.it  may  grow. 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers ; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes  ; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth. 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

2. 

So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decades  new  and  strange. 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The    flower  -and     quintessence    of 
change. 

3- 
Ah,  yet  would  I  —  and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  f.mcy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  a>^'ake  ! 
For,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong. 

To  choose   your  own   you   did  not 
care ; 
You  'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

j\ly  I'ancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro', 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song, 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you  ; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

.•\ll-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd. 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

4- 
For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour. 
Anil  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 


98 


amphion: 


What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken'd 
hopes  ? 

What    lips,    like   thine,    so   sweetly 
join'd? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind; 
Wliich  all  too  dearly  self-involved. 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me  ; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved, 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see  : 
But  break  it.     In  the  name  of  wife, 

And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life. 

And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 


EPILOGUE. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
O  whisjier  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"What  wonder,  ifhe thinks  me  fair? " 
What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight, 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot 
light? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 
But  take  it  —  earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


A  M  P  H  I  O  N . 

Mv  father  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree 

And  waster  than  a  warren  : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

'T  is  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue. 
Such  happy  intonation, 


Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 
He  left  a  small  plantation  ; 

Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 
He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes. 

The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 
And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches. 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  do^^^l 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches  ; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wrealh 

Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming. 
And  from  the  valleys  vmderneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  birch-tree  swang  her  fragrant  hair. 

The  bramble  cast  her  berry, 
The  gin  within  the  juniper 

Began  to  make  him  merrj--. 
The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded. 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie  ; 
Each   pluck'd  his   one  foot  from  the 
grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree  : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine, 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow. 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  was  n't  it  a  sight  to  see. 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 

The  country-side  descended  ; 
And   shepherds  from    the    mountain- 
eaves 

Look'd    down,    half-pleased,     half- 
fi-ighten'd. 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd  ! 

O,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men. 

And  wanton  without  measure  ; 
So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then. 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure.^ 
Twang  out,  my  fiddle  !  shake  the  twigs  1 

And  make  her  dance  attendance  ; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigSf 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 


ST.  A  G.VES.  —  S/H   GA  LA  HAD. 


99 


*T  is  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle  ; 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming;  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear  ?  a  sound 
Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading  : 

0  Lord  !  —  't  is    in    my    neighbor's 

ground, 
The  modern  Muses  reading. 
They  read  Hotanic  TreAtises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  through 
there. 
And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees. 
To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses  !   how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen. 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut. 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warra'd  in  crvstal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy  ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain. 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil, 

And  years  of  cultivation. 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  prow  my  own  plantation. 

1  '11  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom : 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 
A  little  garden  blossom. 


ST.   AGNES. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 

Mv  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  ; 
May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 


The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
^L^ke  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white   robes  are  soiled  and 
dark. 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  1  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens.  O  Lord  !  and  far. 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors. 

And  strows  her  lights  below. 
And  deepens  on  and  w\) !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  tar  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eteniity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  I 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of 
men. 

My  tough  lance  thnisteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trum|>et  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and 
fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands. 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  sliowers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands 


EDWARD   GRAY. 


How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd   in  crypt   and 
shrine : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me   mightier   transports   move   and 
thrill  ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
The    stalls    are  void,   the   doors    are 
wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth. 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steers  : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  mom. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and 
mail  ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 


A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 
This   weight  and  size,  this  heart  and 
eyes. 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes- and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge   and   ford,   by    park   and 
pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD    GRAY. 

Sweet    Emma   Moreland   of  yonder 
town 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 
"  And  have  you  lost  your  heart?  "  she 
said  : 
"  And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward 
Gray?" 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  : 

"  Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  mora 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

"  Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well. 
Against   her   father's   and   mother's 
will  : 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept. 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the 
sea  ; 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite. 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 


LYRICAL   MONdLOGiJE.                                    loi 

"  Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said  ! 

Ahd  jays  h  "thirie  hpor'  ir.V  lips,  o  •» 
TlM?i%  ^a''or'<d  lip^  olrplii'e  ; 

Cruelly  caine  they  back  to-day  : 

'  You  're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  \  said. 

Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

'To   trouble   the   heart  of   Edward 

New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom. 

Gray.' 

And  barren  conunonplaces  break 

In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

"  There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 

Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair  : 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board  ; 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did  : 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 

Speak  a  little,  Elleu  Adair  ! ' 

And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 

Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans. 
And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 

On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'  Here  lies  the  bodv  of  Ellen  Adair  ; 

And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! ' 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

"  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns 

And  flv,  like  a  bird,   from   tree   to 

By  many  pleasant  ways. 

tree  : 

Agamst  its  fountain  upward  runs 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 

The  current  of  my  days  : 

Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd  ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer  ; 

"  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone  : 

And  softlv,  thro'  a  vinous  mist. 

Bitterly  weeping  I  tum'd  away  : 
There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ! 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

And   there    the    heart    of  Edward 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 
Unboding  critic-pen, 

Gray  ! " 

Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence. 

Which  vexes  public  men. 

Who  hold  their  hands  to  all.  and  cry 

WILL  WATERPROOF'S   LYRI- 

For tliat  which  all  deny  them,  — 

CAL  MONOLOGUE. 

Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

MADE   AT   THE   COCK. 

0  PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 
Tho'  fonune  clip  my  wings, 

To  which  I  most  resort. 

How  goes  the  time  ?     'T  is  five  o'clock. 

I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood  ; 

But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance-comers, 

There  must  be  stormy  weather ; 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

On  Lusitanian  summers. 

Ail  parties  work  together. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapet- : 

But  may  she  still  be  kind. 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

If  old  things,  there  are  new  ; 

Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes. 

Her  influence  on  the  mind. 

Yet  ulimpses  of  tho  true. 

To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 

Let  raffs  be  rife  in  pn^se  and  rhyme. 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten  ; 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons. 

Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times. 

As  on  this  whirligig  of   lime 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

I  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid . 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

With  fair  horizons  bound  ! 

LVmOAL'  MONOLOGUE. 


This  vv/hele- twvder  eaWi .  cf- liglit  aaid 

'  .     5?h9&e;    ^'    ,  ^  .»■       \    '. 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Haif-mused,  or  reeling-ripe, 
The  pint,   you  brought   me,  was   the 
best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  the'  the  port  surpasses  praise. 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ  ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house. 

With  many  kinsmen  gay. 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse, 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay  : 
Each  month,  a  birthday  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double  ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept. 

As  old  as  Waterloo  ; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast'  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  hery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 


And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breec* 

That  with  the  napkin  dally  ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forvi'ard  on  a  firmer  leg. 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop  ; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy. 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and 
good. 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement  : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe,  and  spire, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire. 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right    down   by  smoky    Paul's   they 
bore. 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter. 
One  fix'd  forever  at  the  door. 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks  ! 
'T  is  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  com- 
mon ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any,  bom  of  woman. 

I  ranged   too  high  :   what   draws  me 
down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 


LYRICAL   MONOLOGUE. 


For,  something;  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empt>^  glass  reversed), 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  take  myself  to  task  ; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask  : 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare. 

To  prove  myself  a  poet  ; 
But,  while  I  jilan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up  ; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  tlowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup  : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not. 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches  ; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  't  is  gone, 

'T  is  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'T  is  gone  :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more  : 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door. 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits. 

From  misty  men  of  letters  ; 
The  lavem-hours  of  miehty  wits,  — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,   when   the    Poet's  words  and 
looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 
Not  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show  ; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd. 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches  ; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  forever  with  the  past. 
Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 

For  should  I  prize  thee,  couldst  thou 
last, 
At  half  thy  real  worth? 


I  hold  it  ^ood,  good  things  should  pass ; 

With  tmie  I  will  not  quarrel  : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here. 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part :   I  hold  thee  dejr 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou   shalt   from  all   things 
suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter  ; 
And,  wheresoo'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence. 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots  : 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots  : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners. 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

M-'e  fret,  ive  fume,  would  shift  our  skins. 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot  ; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot ; 
To  come  and  ^o,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit. 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen. 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies  ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  comers  of  thine  eyes  : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes. 
Till   melloNf   Death,   like    some    late 
guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor. 
And.  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  ; 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  typ>es  of 
Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven  : 
But    carved    cross-pipes,  and,  under- 
neath, 

A  pini-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO  E.  L.—LADY  CLARE. 


TO 


AFTER  READING  A  LIFE  AND  LETTERS. 

"  Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shakespeare's  Eintaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  tor  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent 
doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown  : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

"  Proclaim   the   faults  he   would    not 
show  : 
Break  lock    and  seal  :    betray   the 

trust  : 
Keep  nothing  sacred  :  't  is  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  shouldknow." 

Ah  shameless  !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A    song   that   pleased    us   from   its 

worth  ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My   Sliakespeare's   curse   on  clown 
and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  mike  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier. 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree. 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glor\''s  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd  ! 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS, 
IN  GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass. 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen. 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there  : 

And  trust  me  while  I  turn'd  the  page. 
And    track'd    you    still    on    classic 

ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 
And  glisten'd  —  here  and  there  alone 
Thebroad-limb'd  Gods  at  random 
thrown 

By  fountain;ums  ;  — and  Naiads  oar'd 

A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell  ; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom  " 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks, 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


LADY    CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow. 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air. 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousu^.,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they  : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  mom  ; 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  1 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth. 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  tor  my  own  true  worth. 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 
Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ?  " 


Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare." 


LADY  CLARE. 


103 


*'  il  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  witli  me." 

*■  O  God  be  thank'd  !  "  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair  : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse, 
my  nurse  ? " 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "that  ye  speak  so 
wild?" 
"As  God's    above,"   said  Alice   the 
nurse, 
"  I   speak   the   truth :   you   are   my 
child. 

"  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast  ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread  ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  tliis  be  true. 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I  'm  a  beggar  bom,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  broach  of  gold. 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said  "  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ? "   said  Alice 
the  nurse, 
"The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  re- 
plied, 
"Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give   one  kiss  to   your   mother 
dear  ! 
Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 


"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 
"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here  's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  rus-set  gown, 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by 
down. 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept   Lord    Ronald    from   his 
tower  : 
"  O   Lady   Clare,   you   shame  your 
worth  ! 
Why  come   you  drest   like   a  village 
maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?  " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid^ 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  ; 

I  am  a  beggar  bom,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ro- 
nald, 
'   For   I  am  yours  in  word  and  in 
deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  taJe. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 
I         He  turn'd,  and  kiss'd  her  where  sh« 
I  stood  : 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  bom, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood  — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  bom, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


io6 


THE  LORD   OF  BURLEIGH. 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily, 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape-painter, 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof: 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar. 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present  ; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will    make  our   cottage    pleas- 
ant. 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand  : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing. 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses. 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 
"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great. 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady. 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  the-r 
days. 
O  but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home  ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly. 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns  ; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 

And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 


While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer. 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

"All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free. 
Not  a  lord  in  all'the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove  ; 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover, 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirits  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meek 
ness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady. 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her. 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter. 

As  she  murmur' d,  "  O,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-paint- 
er, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  !  " 
So   she   droop'd    and   droop'd  before 
him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side  : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early. 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down, 
Deeply  mourn'd    the    Lord    of   Bur- 
leigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  lie  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her. 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading. 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


S/I?  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 


to? 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles   from   heaven 

again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And,  far  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song  : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimesthesparhawk,wheerd  along, 
Hush'd    all   the  groves  from  fear  of 
wrong : 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  \'ear. 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer. 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'da  part  of  joyous  Spring: 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net. 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet. 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set : 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the 
plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade. 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss. 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
Tc  waste  Ws  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  peifect  lips. 


A    FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea. 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  la\vn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river  : 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

Forever  and  forever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree. 
And  here  thine  asjien  shiver  ; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
Forever  and  forever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver  ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forcve. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid  ; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say: 
Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cojihctua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  slept  down. 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way  ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen  : 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 

One   her    dark   hair   and  lovesorae 
mien. 
So  sweet  a  face,  such  angol  grace. 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath  : 

"  This  beggar  maid    shall    be    my 
queen  ! "  , 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  ni'.:ht  was  late  : 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace 

gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 

have  flown. 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin, 


u. 


io8 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him 

in, 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 
Expecting    when    a    fountain    should 

arise  : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and 

lips  — 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles 

and  capes -y- 
Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid 

shapes, 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 

and  piles  of  grapes. 

2. 

Then    methought    I    heard   a   mellow 

sound. 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem- 
bled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trem- 
bled, 
Wov'n  in  circles  :   they  that  heard  it 

sigh'd, 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale. 
Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones 

replied  ; 
Till  the  fountain   spouted,    showering 

wide 
Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 
Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and 

died  ; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail. 
Storm 'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale  ; 
Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 

waited, 
As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightin- 
gale, 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Cauglu  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple   gauzes,   golden   hazes,    liquid 

mazes. 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round  : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places. 
Moved  with  violence,  chp.nged  in  hue. 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces. 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 
Wheeling  witii  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces. 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 


Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew  : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony. 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 

3- 

And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  moun- 
tain-tract. 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 
lawn  : 

I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  with- 
drawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 

God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn. 

Unheeded  :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 

From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly 
drawing  near, 

A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 

Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month 
and  year. 

Unheeded :  and  I  thought  I  would 
have  spoken. 

And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew 
too  late  : 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.  Mine 
was  broken, 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch'd  the 
palace  gate. 

And  link'd  again.   I  saw  within  my  head 

A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as 
death. 

Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd 
heath. 

And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said  : 


"  Wrinkled  hostler,  grim  and  thin  ! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way  ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in. 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 
"  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast  ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed  ; 
What  !  the  flower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 
"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour. 

At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 
Let  us  have  a  quiet  iiour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 
"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


109 


"Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
Wlien  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drip's, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 

Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  : 
What  care  I  for  any  name  ? 

What  for  order  or  degree  ? 
"  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg : 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  wjth  wine  : 
Callest  thou  tliat  thing  a  leg  ? 

Which  is  thiimest?  thine  or  mine  ? 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works : 

Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too  : 
Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks. 

Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you  ! 
"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 

Have  a  rouse  before  the  mom  : 
Every  moment  dies  a  man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

''  We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  lancy-tlies. 
•'  Name  and  fame  !  to  fly  sublime 

Through  the  courts,  the  camps,  the 
schools, 
Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  in  the  hands  of  fools. 

•'  Friendship  !  —  to  be  two  in  one  — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 

How  she  moutiis  behind  my  back. 

"  Virtue  !  —  to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well, 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 
Mi.x'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

'■  O  !  we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

-'  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  beibre  the  mom  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  bom. 

''  Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  : 
They  are  fiU'd  with  idle  spleen ; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave, 
For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 


"  He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power ; 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

*'  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Greet  her  with  applausive  breath. 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread  ; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath. 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

"  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new ;  • 
She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 

And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 
Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go  !  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs  : 

-Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"  Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"  Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise. 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

"  Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue ; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free  ; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"  Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

Wiiat  there  is  in  loving  tears, 
And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"Tell  me  tiles  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hope-^,  the  fools  of  chance: 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  tile  dead  bjgin  to  dance. 

*'  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  du-t  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  agam. 

"  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads: 

Welcome,  fello.v-ciii/.ens, 
HuUow  hearts  and  empty  heads  I 


COME  NOT,   WHEN  I  AM  DEAD.  —  THE  jSAGLE. 


"  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 

Every  face,  however  full. 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 
"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  ! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam  —  if  1  know  your  sex. 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  —  nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  i  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Lo  !  God's  likeness  —  the  ground- 
plan  — 

Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  or  framed  : 
Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 

Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed  ! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath  ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

"  Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near  : 

What  !  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

"  Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd  ; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scom  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  : 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 


The  voice  grew  faint :   there  came  a 

further  change  : 
Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  moun- 
tain-range : 
Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced 

with  worms, 
And  slowly  quickening  into  lowerforms; 
By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 

of  dross. 
Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd 

with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake  :    "  Behold  !  it 

was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  tha*  wore 

with  time." 


Another  said  :  "  The  crime  of  sentie 
became       ' 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal 
blame." 

And  one :  "  He  had  not  wholly 
quench'd  his  power ; 

A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
sour." 

At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  "  Is  there  any 
hope  ? " 

To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that 
high  land. 

But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  under- 
stand ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave. 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head. 
And  vex   the    unhappy  dust    thou 
wouldst  not  save. 
There   let   the   wind    sweep  and    the 
plover  cry  ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,   if  it  were   thine   error  or  thy 
crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest  : 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of 
Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,   weak  heart,  and  leave  me 
where  I  lie : 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE    EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
)    And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


'  Break,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! ' 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK.  —  THE  POET'S  SO.VG. 


M  jVK  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow : 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go  : 

rill  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Tliy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  mamage-mom, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night 


Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I   would   that  my  tongue  could 
utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  he   shouts  with  his  sister  at 
play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand. 
And   the   sound  of  a  voice  that  is 
stilll 


Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  i« 
dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE   POET'S   SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose. 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of 
the  street. 
A  light  wind  blew   from  the  gates  of 
the  sun. 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat, 
And    he   sat   him    down   in   a   lonely 
place. 
And    chanted  a  melody  loud    and 
sweet. 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud. 
And  the  lark  drop  doNvn  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted   the 

bee, 
The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray. 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on 
his  beak. 
And  stared,   with   his  foot  on  the 
prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have 
sung  many  songs. 
But  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 
When  the  years  have  died  away." 


THE   PRINCESS: 


THE     PRINCESS 


A     ^I  E  D  L  E  Y . 


TO 

HENRY    LUSHINGTON 

THIS    VOLUME     IS     INSCRIBED     BY     HIS     FRIEND 

A.    TENNYSON. 


PROLOGUE. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's 

day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of 

sun 
Up  to  the  people  :   thither  fiock'd  at 

noon 
His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and  thither 

half 
The  neighboring   borough  with   their 

Institute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.     I  was 

there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son,  —  the 

son 
A  Walter  too,  —  with  others  of  our  set. 
Five  others  :  we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd 

the  house, 
Greek,  set  with  busts :  from  vases  in 

the  hall 
Flowers  of  all   heavens,  and  lovelier 

than  their  names, 
Grew  side  by  side  ;  and  on  the  pave- 

mefit  lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 

park. 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones 

of  Time  : 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together  :  celts  and  calumets. 
Claymore  and  snow-shoe,  toys  in  lava, 

fans 


Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries. 
Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere, 
The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle- 
clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm  :  and  higher  on 

the  walls, 
Betwi.xt   the   monstrous  honis  of  elk 

and  deer. 
His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  armor 
hung. 

And  "this,"  he  said,  "was  Hugh's 

at  Agincourt  ; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Asca- 

lon  : 
A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With    all    about    him,"  —  which     be 

brought,  and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt 

with  knights 
ILnlf-legend,    half-historic,  counts  and 

kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and 

died ; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that 

arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro' 

the  gate, 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 

"O   miracle   of  women,"    said   the 
book, 
"  O    noble    heart  who,   being    strait- 
besieged 


A    MEDLEY. 


'13 


By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his 

wish, 
Nor  bcMU,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a 

soldier's  death. 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd 

as  lost  — 
Her  stature  more   than  mortal  in  the 

burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire  — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from 

the  gate. 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunder- 
bolt. 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses' 

heels. 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles 

of  the  wall. 
And  some   were   push'd   with   lances 

from  the  rock. 
And    part   were   drown'd    within    the 

whirling  brook : 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood  !  " 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chroni- 
cle ; 

And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "Come  out," 
he  snid, 

"  To  the  Abbey  :  there  is  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth 

And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest."  We 
went 

(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 

Down  thro'  the  park :  strange  was  the 
si.i^ht  to  ine  ; 

For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur'd, 
sown  " 

With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thou- 
sand heads  : 

The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 

Taught  them  with  facts.  One  rear'd 
a  font  of  stone 

And  drew,  from  butts  of  water  on  the 
slope. 

The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing 
now 

A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of 
pearls, 

Or  steep -up  spout  whereon  the  gilded 
ball 

Danced  like  a  wisp :  and  somewhat 
lower  down 

A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 
fired 


A  cannon  :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields :  and  here  were  tele- 
scopes 
For  azure  views  ;  and  there  a  group  of 

girls 
In    circle   waited,   whom   the  electric 

shock 
Dislink'd  with  shrieks  and  laughter : 

round  the  lake 
A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddling 

plied 
And  shook   the  lilies  :   perch'd  about 

the  knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  : 
A  petty  railway  ran  :  a  fire  balloon 
Rose  gem-like   up  before   the   dusky 

groves 
And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past : 
And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  tele- 

grajjh 
They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and 

fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations ;  so  that 

sport 
Went    hand    in    hand  with   Science  ; 

otherwhere 
Pure  sport :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor 

bowl'd 
And  stumpd  the  wicket ;  babies  roll'd 

about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ;  and  men 

and  maids 
Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew 

thro'  light 
And  shallow,  while  the  twangling  violin 
Struck    up    with   Soldier-laddie,    and 

overhead 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 

end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking 

of  the  time  ; 
And   long  we  gazed,  but   satiated   at 

length 
Came  to  the  ruins.     Higharch'd  and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'   one   wide   chasm   of  time   and 

frost  they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house  ;  but 

all  within 
The   sward   was  trim  as  any  garden 

lawn  : 


THE   PRINCESS. 


And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats :  and  there  was 

Ralph  himself, 
A  broken  statue  jDropt  against  the  wall, 
As  gay  as  any.     Lilia,  wild  with  sport, 
Half  child,   half  woman   as   she  was, 

had  wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk, 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his 

ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam  :  near  his  tomb 

a  feast 
Shone,   silver-set;    about    it    lay    the 

guests. 
And  there  we  join'd  them :  then  the 

maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it 

preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd. 
And  all  things  great ;  but  we,  unwor- 

thier,  told 
Of  college  :  he  had  climb'd  across  the 

spikes, 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 

the  bars. 
And  he   had  ^breathed  the   Proctor's 

dogs  :  and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to  common 

men, 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord  ; 
And   one   the   Master,  as  a  rogue   in 

grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk'd,  above  their 

heads  I  saw 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad  ;   which 

brought 
My  book  to  mind  :  and  opening  this 

I  read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that 

rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney  ;  then  the  tale 

of  her 
That  drove  lier  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls, 
And  much    I   praised  her  nobleness, 

and  "  Where," 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  head  (she 

lay 
Beside  him)  "  lives  there  such  a  woman 

now?" 


Quick  answer'd  Lilia,   "  There  are 

thousands  now 
Such    women,   but    convention    beats 

tliem  down  : 
It  is  but  bringing  up  ;  no  more  than 

that  : 
You  men  have  done   it :   how  I  hate 

you  all  ! 
Ah,  were  I  something  great !     I  wish 

I  were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame 

you  then. 
That  love  to  keep  us  children  !     O  I 

wish 
That  I  were  some  great   Princess,  I 

would  build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's, 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men 

are  taught ; 
We  are  twice  as  quick  !  "     And  here 

she  shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with 

her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling,  "  Pretty  were 

the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex, 

and  flaunt 
With    prudes   for  proctors,    dowagers 

for  deans. 
And  sweet  girl -graduates  in  their  golden 

hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 

gowns, 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths, 

or   Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  comer ;  yet  I  fear, 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the 

nest. 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot : 
"  That 's  your  liglit  way ;  but  I  would 

make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself 

she  laugh'd  ; 
A  rose-bud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns. 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 

her,  slie  : 
But  Walter  hail'd   a  score  of^names 

upon  her, 


A    MEDLEY. 


"5 


And  "  petty  Ogress,"  and  "  ungrateful 
Puss'," 

And  swore  he  long'd  at  College,  only 
long'd, 

All  else  was  well,  for  slie-society. 

Thev  boated  and  they  cricketed ;  they 
talk'd 

At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics  ; 

They  lost  their  weeks  ;  they  vext  the 
souls  of  deans  ; 

They  rode  :  they  betted  ;  made  a  hun- 
dred friends. 

And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying 
terms, 

But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 

The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.      Thus 
he  spoke. 

Part  banter,  part  affection. 

"True,"  she  said, 

"  We    doubt  not  that.      O   yes,   you 
miss'd  us  much. 

I  '11  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 
did." 

She   held  it   out ;   and  as  a   parrot 

turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye. 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care. 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 

harm. 
So    he    with    Lilia's.       Daintily    she 

shriek'd 
And   wrung    it.       "  Doubt    my  word 

again  !  "  he  said. 
"  Come,  listen  !  here  is  proof  that  you 

were  miss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to 

read, 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read : 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube 

and  square 
Were  out   of  season :    never  man,    I 

think. 
So  moulder'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he  : 
For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty 

feet. 
And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 

as  brooms. 
We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you  all 
In  wassail  ;  often,  like  as  many  girls  — 
Sick  for  the  hollies  and   the   yews  of 

home  — 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  —  play'd 


Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas 

here. 
And   tvkat^s  my  thiuts^kt  and   whtM 

and  ivhere  and  ko'M, 
And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to 

mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that  ; 
A  pleasant  game,   she   thought :   she 

liked  it  more 
Than   magic    music,   forfeits,   all    the 

rest. 
But  these  —  what  kind  of  tales  did  men 

tell  men, 
She  wonder'd,  by  themselves  ? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her 

lips: 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me  ;   "He  be- 
gan. 
The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn  ; 

and  so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.     Kind? 

what  kind  ? 
Chimeras,   crotchets,   Christmas  sole- 
cisms. 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to 

kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter*" 

"  Kill  him  now, 
The  t>Tant  !   kill  him  in  the  summer 

loo," 
Said    Lilia  ;     "  Why   not   now,"    the 

maiden  Aunt. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's 

tale  ? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time. 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 

place, 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
Grave,  solemn  ! " 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I 

laugh'd 
And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
An  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker. 
Hid  in  the  ruins  ;  till  the  maiden  .Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd  her 

face 
With  color)  tum'd  to  me  with  "  As  you 

will; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  wliat  you  will. 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  »<"  you  will." 


ii6                                            THE  PRINCESS: 

"Take    Lilia,   then,    for    heroine," 

Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  fore- 

clamor'd he, 

told, 

*'  And  make  her  some  gi'eat  Princess, 

Dying,    that    none    of   all    our  blood 

six  feet  high. 

should  know 

Grand,  epic,  homicidal ;  and  be  you, 

The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and 

The  Prince  to  win  her  !  " 

that  one 

"  Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 

Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and 

I  answer'd,  "  each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 

to  fall. 

Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 

For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

dream.  — 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more 

Heroic    seems    our    Princess    as    re- 

or less, 

quired.  — 

An   old   and  strange  .iffeciion   of  the 

But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 

house. 

and  place, 

Myself  too  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven 

A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 

knows  what : 

A  talk  of  cnlleare  and  of  ladies'  rights, 

On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and 

A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade. 

day, 

And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  ex- 

And while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  here- 

periments 

tofore. 

For  which   the   good  Sir  Ralph   had 

I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of 

burnt  them  all  — 

ghosts, 

This  ivere  a  medley  !  we  should  have 

And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

him  back 

Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt- 

Who  told  the  '  Winter's  tale  '  to  do  it 

head  cane, 

for  us. 

And  paw'd  his  beard,   and  mutter'd 

No    matter :    we   will    say    whatever 

"catalepsy." 

comes. 

My  mother  pitying  made  a  thousand 

And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will. 

prayers ; 

From  time  t3  time,  some  ballad  or  a 

My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 

song 

Half-canonized  by  all  that  look'd  on 

To  give  us  breathing-space." 

her, 

So  I  began, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tender- 

And the  rest  follow'd  :  and  the  women 

ness  : 

sang 

But  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a 

Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men, 

king ; 

Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind  : 

He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the 

And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs. 

house ; 

He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's 

wand 

To-  lash  offence,   and  with  long  arms 

I. 

and  hands 

Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from 

A  Prince  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 

the  mass 

face. 

For  judcjment. 

Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been. 

With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a 

While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade, 

giri, 

betroth'd 

For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern 

To  one,  a  neighboring  Princess :  she 

star. 

to  me 

Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our 

At  eight  years  old ;  and  still  from  time 

house. 

to  time 

Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-ofif  grand- 

Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the 

sire  burnt 

South, 

A    MEDLEV. 


>f 


And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puis- 
sance ; 

And  still  X  wore  her  picture  by  my 
heart. 

And  one  dark  tress  ;  and  all  around 
them  both 

Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees 
about  their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I 

should  wed, 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 
Aiid  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her  :  these 

brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom  ; 
And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as 

wind : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king ;  he  took 

the  gifts ; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact ;  that  was 

true : 
But  then  she  had  a  will ;   was  he  to 

blame  ? 
And  maiden   fancies ;    loved    to   live 

alone 
Aiiong  her  women  ;  certain,  would  not 

wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room 

I  stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two 

friends ; 
The    first,     a    gentleman    of    broken 

means 
(His  father's  fault)  but  given  to  starts 

and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  aimost  my  half-self,   for  still  we 

moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and 

eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I  saw  my  fa- 
ther's face 

Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a  rising 
moon, 

Inflamed  with  wrath  :  he  started  on  his 
feet. 

Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down, 
and  rent 

The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and 
woof 

From  skirt  to  skirt ;  and  at  the  la^t  he 
sware 


That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thou- 
sand men. 

And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind  :  then  he 
chew'd 

The  thrice-tum'd  cud  of  wrath,  and 
cook'd  his  spleen, 

Communing  with  his  captains  of  the 
war. 

At  last  I  spoke.  •  "My  father,   let 

me  go. 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king. 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hos- 
pitable : 
Or,  maybe,    I   myself,  my  bride  once 

seen, 
Wliate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than 

fame, 
May  rue   the   bargain   made."     And 

Florian  said : 
"  I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court. 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess ;  she, 

you  know. 
Who  wedded  with   a  nobleman  from 

thence  : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear. 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 
Thro'  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 

clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd  :  "  Take  me  with 

you  too." 
Then  iaugliing  "  what,  if  these  weird 

seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one 

near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 

truth  ! 
Take  me :    I  '11  serve  you  better  in  a 

strait  ; 
I  grate  on  rusty  hinges   here "  :   but 

"  No  !  " 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  "  you  shall  not ; 

we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies 

dead 
In  iron  gauntlets  :   break  the  council 

up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose 

and  past 
Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about 

the  town  ; 
Found  a  still  place,  and   pluck'd  her 

likeness  out : 


THE  PRINCESS: 


Laid  It  on  flowers,  and  vvatch'd  it  lying 

bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell'd 

trees : 
What  were  those   fancies  ?   wherefore 

break  her  troth  ? 
Proud  look'd   the   lips :    but   while   I 

meditated 
A  wind   arose   and   rush'd   upon    the 

South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and 

the  shrieks 
Of  the  wild   woods  together;    and   a 

Voice 
Went  with  it,    "  Follow,  follow,  thou 

shalt  win." 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle   of  that 

month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from 

court 
With  Cyril  and  with   Florian,  unper- 

ceived. 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town  and  half  in 

dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamor  at  our  backs 
With    Ho !    from    some    bay-window 

shake  the  night  ; 
But  all  was  quiet :  from  the  bastion'd 

walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 

dropt, 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier :  then 

we  crost 
To  a  livelier  land  ;  and  so  by  tilth  and 

grange. 
And  vnies,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wil- 
derness. 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with 

towers. 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the 

king. 

His  name  was  Gama ;  crack'd  and 
small  his  voice, 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrin- 
kling wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in 
lines  ; 

A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star. 

Not  like  a  king  :  three  days  he  feasted 
us. 

And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we 
came, 


And  my  betroth'd.  "You  do  us, 
Prince,"  he  said. 

Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 

''  All  honor.  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 

In  our  sweet  youth  :  there  did  a  com- 
pact pass 

Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  cere- 
mony — 

I  think  the  year  in  which  our  olives 
fail'd. 

I  would  you  had  hsr,  Prince,  with  all 
my  heart. 

With  my  full  heart :  but  there  were 
widows  here, 

Two  widows.  Lady  Psyche,  Lady 
Blanche  ; 

They  fed  her  theories,  In  and  out  of 
place 

Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp'd  on  this  ;  with  this  our 
banquets  rang ; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots 
of  talk ; 

Nothing  but  this  ;  my  very  ears  were 
hot 

To  hear  them :  knowledge,  so  my 
daughter  held. 

Was  all  in  all  ;  they  had  but  been,  she 
thought. 

As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child, 
assume 

The  woman  :  then.  Sir,  awful  odes  sha 
wrote. 

Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated 
of, 

But  all  she  Is  and  does  Is  awful ;  odes 

About  this  losing  of  the  child  ;  and 
rhymes 

And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 

Beyond  all  reason  :  these  the  women 
sang  ; 

And  they  that  know  such  things  —  I 
sought  but  peace  ; 

No  critic  I  —  would  call  them  master- 
pieces ; 

They  master'd  me.  At  last  she  begg'd 
a  boon 

A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 

Hard  by  your  father's  frontier  :  I  said 
no, 

Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it ;  and 
there. 


A    MEDLEY. 


119 


All  wild  to  found  an  University 

For  maidens,   on  the  spur  she  fled  ; 

and  more 
We  know  not,  —  only  thii  :   they  see 

no  men, 
Not  ev'n  her  brother  Anic,nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look 

upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon  ;  and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loath 

to  breed 
Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  :  but 

since 
(And  I   confess  with  right)  you  think 

me  bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  to 

her; 
And  yet,   to  speak  the  truth,    I    rate 

your  chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing." 

i'hus  the  king ; 
And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to 

slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 

frets 
But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my  bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends. 

We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North, 

At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land 

of  hope. 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic  towTi 
Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent-curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties  ; 
There  enter'd  an  old  hostel,  call'd  mine 

host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest 

wines. 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the 

king. 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as   death  in   marble  ;   then 

exclaim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go  :  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "  If  the  king,"   he 

said, 
"  Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound 

to  speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out  "  ;  and 

at'the  last  — 


The   summer  of  the    vine   in   all    his 

veins  — 
"  No   doubt    that   we    might   make  it 

worth  his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way  ;  he  heard 

her  speak  ; 
She  scared  him  ;  life  !   he  never  saw 

the  like  ; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and 

as  grave  : 
And  he,  lie  reverenced  his  liege-lady 

there  : 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with 

mares ; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were 

the  boys  : 
The  land  he  understood  for  miles  about 
Was  till'd  by  women  ;  all  the  swine 

were  sows. 
And  all  the  dogs  —  " 

But  while  he  jested  thus 
A  thouglit  flash'd  thro'   me  which   I 

clothed  in  act. 
Remembering  how  we  three  presented 

Maid 
Or   Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide 

of  feast. 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's 

court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 

gear; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to 

shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter, 

holp 
To  lace  us   up,   till,   each,  in   maiden 

plumes 
We  rustled  :  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  niminted  our  good 

steeds. 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode, 
And  rode   till  midnigh:  when  the  col- 

lej:e  lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley  :   then    we    past    an 

arch. 
Whereon  a  woman-statue   rose   with 

wings 
From  four  wing'd  horses  dark  against 

the  stars  ; 
And  some   inscription   ran   along    the 

front, 


THE  PRINCESS: 


j        But  deep  in  shadow :   further  on  we 
i  gam'd 

j        A   little   street   half  garden   and   half 
j  house ; 

I        But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak 
for  noise 
Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 
On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering 

down 
In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose  : 
And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale, 
Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the 
snare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a 

sign. 
By  two   sphere   lamps   blazon'd    like 

Heaven  and  Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent. 
Above  an  entry  :  riding  in,  we  call'd  ; 
A  plump-arm'd  Ostleress  and  a  stable 

wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd 

us  down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom  hostess  forth,  and 

sail'd. 
Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 

gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and  this, 
And  who  were  tutors.  "Lady  Blanche,"' 

she  said, 
"And  Lady  Psyche."     "Which  was 

prettiest, 
Best  -  natured  ?  "        "  Lady   Psyche." 

"  Hers  are  we," 
One  voice,  we  cried ;  and  I  sat  down 

and  wrote. 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East : 

"  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  em- 
pire pray 
Your  Hi£;imess  would  enroll  them  with 

yor.r  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd  : 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll. 
And  o'er  his  hend  Uranian  Venus  hung. 
And  raised  the  blinding  bandage  from 

his  eyes  : 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  ; 


And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 
seem'd 

To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and 
watch 

A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moon- 
light, swell 

On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it 
was  rich. 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why. 
And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years. 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


XL 

At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress 

came  : 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each. 
And  zoned  with  gold  ;  and  now  when 

these  were  on, 
And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk 

cocoons. 
She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,   let    us 

know 
The    Princess    Ida    waited :    out    we 

paced, 
I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch 

that  sang 
All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 
Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with 

lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  gi-eat  urns 

of  flowers. 
The  Muses  and  the   Graces,  group'd 

in  threes, 
Enrlng'd'  a  billowing  fountain   in  tlie 

midst  ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 
'   Or  book  or  lute  ;  but  hastily  we  past,    ■ 
And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 


A    MEDLEY. 


There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper 
sat, 

With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  be- 
side her  throne, 

All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form. 

The  Princess  ;  liker  to  the  inhabi- 
tant 

Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the 
Sun, 

Than  our  man's  earth  ;  such  eyes  were 
in  her  head, 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breath- 
ing down 

From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with  every 
turn 

Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 
hands, 

And  to  her  feet.  She  rose  her  height, 
and  said  : 

"  We  give  you  welcome  :  not  with- 
out redound 

Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come. 

The  tirst-fruits  of  the  stranger  :  after- 
time, 

And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 
the  grave, 

Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 
me. 

What  !  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so 
tall?" 

"  We  of  the  court,"  said  Cyril.  "  From 
the  court," 

She  answer'd,  "  then  ye  know  the 
Prince?"  and  he : 

"  The  climax  of  his  age  !  as  tho'  there 
were 

One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  High- 
ness that. 

He  worships  your  ideal."  She  replied  : 

"  We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 
to  hear 

This  barren  verbiage,  current  among 
men. 

Like  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compli- 
ment. 

Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless 
wilds  would  seem 

As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 
power  ; 

Your  language  proves  you  still  the 
child.     Indeed, 

We  dream  not  of  him  :  when  we  set 
our  hand 


To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 

ourselves 
Never  to  wed.     You  likewise  will  do 

well, 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and 

fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men, 

that  so. 
Some  Aiture  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
You   may  with   those    self-styled   our 

lords  ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale 

with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we  consciout 
of  ourselves. 

Perused  the  malting  ;  then  an  officer 

Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such 
as  these  : 

Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 
home  ; 

Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liber- 
ties: 

Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any 
men  ; 

And  many  more,  which  hastily  sub- 
scribed, 

We  enter'd  on  the  boards :  and  "  Now," 
she  cried, 

"  Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 
Look,  our  hall  ! 

Our  statues  !  —  not  of  those  that  men 
desire, 

Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode. 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East ; 
but  she 

That  taugiit  the  Sabine  how  to  rule, 
and  she 

The  foundress  of  tha  Babylonian  wall. 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 

The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 

Clelia,  Cornell.!,  with  the  Palm\Tene 

That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 
brows 

Of  Agrippina.  Dwell  with  these,  and 
lose 

Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble 
forms 

Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organ- 
ism 

That  which  is  higher.  O  lift  your  na- 
tures up  : 

Embrace  our  aims :  work  out  your 
freedom.     Girls, 


122                                             THE  PRINCESS: 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain 

As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and 

seal'd : 

here 

Drink   deep,   until   the   habits  of  the 

Among  the  lowest." 

slave, 

Thereupon  she  took 

The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 

A  bird's-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious 

!        And  slander,  die.     Better  not  be  at  all 

past; 

Than  not  be  noble.      Leave  us :  you 

Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 

may  go  : 

As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age  ; 

To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 

Appraised  the   Lycian  custom,  spoke 

The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before  ; 

of  those 

For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provin- 

That lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo ; 

ces. 

Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Ro- 

And fill  the  hive." 

man  lines 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 

Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in 

Dismissal :   back  again  we   crost  the 

each. 

court 

How  far  from  just ;  till  wanning  with 

To  Lady  Psyche's  :  as  we  enter'd  in, 

her  theme 

There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morn- 

She fulmined   out   her  sconi   of  laws 

ing  doves 

Salique 

That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the 

And   little-footed   China,    touch'd    on 

thatch, 

Mahomet 

A  patient  range  of  pupils  ;  she  herself 

With   much   contempt,   and   came   to 

Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood. 

chivalry : 

A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,   fal- 

When  some  respect,   however  slight, 

con-eyed, 

was  paid 

And   on   the   hither   side,    or    so    she 

To  woman,  superstition  all  awry : 

look'd. 

However  then  commenced  the  dawn  j 

Of  twenty   summers.     At   her  left,   a 

a  beam 

child, 

Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 

In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star, 

Of  promise  ;  fruit  would  follow.  Deep, 

Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 

indeed, 

Aglaia    slept.       We    sat :    the    Lady 

Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first 

glanced : 

had  dared 

Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the 

To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 

dame 

Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 

That  whisper'd  "  Asses'  ears  "  among 

assert 

the  sedge. 

None    lordlier    than    themselves    but 

"My  sister."      "Comely  too  by  all 

that  which  made 

that 's  fair," 

Woman  and  man.     She  had  founded; 

Said  Cyril.      "  O  hush,   hush  !  "  and 

they  must  build. 

she  began. 

Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men 

were  taught : 

"This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze 

Let   them  not  fear:  some   said  their 

6i  light, 

heads  were  less  : 

Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry 

Some  men's  were  small ;  not  they  the 

tides, 

least  of  men ; 

And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling 

For  often  fineness  compensated  size  : 

cast 

Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand, 

The  planets:  then  the  monster,  then 

and  grew 

the  man  ; 

With  using  ;  thence  the  man's,  if  more 

Tattoo'd    or    woaded,    winter-clad    in 

was  more  ; 

skins. 

He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 

Raw  from   the   prime,    and    crushing 

First  in  the  field  :  some  ages  had  been 

down  his  mate ; 

lost; 

A    MEDLEY. 


"3 


But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 
Was  ]on;^er ;  and  albeit  their  glorious 

names 
Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since 

in  truth 
The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kaflir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the 

glebe, 
But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam ;  even  so 
With  woman :  and  in  arts  of  govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth  and  others  ;  arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others ;  arts  of 

grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man  : 
And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left 

her  place. 
And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they 

might  grow 
To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the 

blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn  " 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ;  "everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 

hearth, 
Two  in   the   tangled  business   of  the 

world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 

the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind  : 
Musician,     painter,     sculptor,     critic, 

more  : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  boim- 

teous  Earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those 

rare  souls, 
Poets,    whose    thoughts    enrich    the 

blood  of  the  world." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us : 
the  rest 
Parted;   and.  glowing  full-faced  wel- 
come, she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 
Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all 

her  voice 
Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat, 
she  criad, 


"My  brother!"     "Well,  my  sister." 

"O,"  she  said, 
'•  What  do  you  here  ?  and  in  this  dress? 

and  these  ? 
Why  who  are  these?  a  wolf  within  th* 

fold! 
A  pack  of  wolves  1  the  Lord  be  graciou« 

to  me  ! 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot  to  ruin  all  ! " 
"  No    plot,   no    plot,"    he    answer'd. 

"  Wretched  boy, 
How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on 

the  gate. 
Let  no  man  enter  i.s  on  p.\in  of 

DEATH?" 

"And  if  I  had,"  he  answer'd,  "who 

could  think 
The  softer  .Adams  of  your  Academe, 
O  sister.  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 

men  ?" 
"  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,"  she 

said. 
"  You  jest :  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools  I 

my  vow 
Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O  that  iron  will, 
That    axelike    edge    unturnable,    our 

Head, 
The  Princess."     "Well  then.  Psyche, 

take  my  life, 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning  :  bury  me  beside  the  gate. 
And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones ; 
Here  lies  n  hrotfu-r  by  a  sister  slain, 
A II /or  ill'  common  good  of  woman- 
kind." 
"  Let  me  die  too,"  said  Cyril,  "  having 

seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche." 

I  struck  in  : 
"Albeit  so  mask'd.  Madam,  I  love  the 

truth; 
Receive    it;    and  in   me  behold  the 

Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida  :  here,  for  here  she 

was. 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left)  I 

came." 
"  O  Sir,  O  Prince,  I  have  no  country  : 

none  ; 
If  any,   this  ;  but  none.     Whate'er  I 

was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 


124 


THE  PRINCESS. 


AfEanced,  Sir?  love-whispers  may  not 

breathe 
Within    this    vestal    limit,    and    how 

shou'd  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live  :  the  thun- 

derbo't 
Hangs  silent:  but  prepare:  I  speak; 

it  falls." 
"Yet  pause,"    I   said:    "for  that  in- 
scription  tliere, 
I  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 
Than  in  a  capper  clapping  in  a  garth, 
To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit :  if  more 

there  be, 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows? 

war: 
Your  owm  work  marr'd  :  for  this  your 

Academe, 
Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 
Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and 

pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A    storm'ess    summer."       "Let    the 

Princess  judge 
Of  that,"  she  said^   "farewell.  Sir  — 

and  to  you. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go." 

"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  re- 
join'd, 

"  The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old'Florian, 

Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's 
hall 

(The  gaunt  o'd  Baron  with  his  beetle 
brow 

Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 

As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he 
fell. 

And  all  else  fled  :  we  point  to  it,  and 
we  say, 

The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not 
cold. 

But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred 
veins." 

"Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  add- 
ed, "  she 

With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning 
hi  Is, 

Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the 
purple  fly, 

And  sn:\red  the  squirrel  of  the  glen? 
are  you 

That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throb- 
bing brow, 


To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  abar.*- 

ing  draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and 

read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams? 

are  you 
That    brother-sister    Psyche,  both  ir, 

one? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  ar». 

you  now? " 
"  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said, 

"  for  whom 
I  would  be  that  forever  which  I  seem, 
Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  yoar  feet 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  began, 
"That  on  her  bridal  mom  before  she 

past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when 

the  king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  cheek,   declared  that 

ancient  ties 
Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  south- 
ern hills ; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them  :   look  !   for  such  are 

these  and  I." 
"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  ask'd, 

"  to  whom, 
In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came  flving  while  you  sat  beside  the 

well  ? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your 

lap. 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it, 

and  the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 

wept. 
That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's, 

yet  you  wept. 
O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece. 
You  were   that   Psyche,  and  what  are 

you  now  ?  " 
"  You   are   that  Psyche,"   Cyril    said 

again, 
"  The   mother  of  the   sweetest  little 

maid. 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"  Out  upon  it  !  '^ 
She  answer'd,  "  peace  !  and  why  should 
I  no«^  olav 


A    MEDLEY. 


125 


The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 

The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 

Him  you  call  great  :  he  lor  the  com- 
mon weal. 

The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 

As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need 
were, 

Slew  both  his  sons  :  and  I,  shall  I,  on 
whom 

The  secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from 
right  to  save 

A  prince,  a  brother?  a  little  will  I 
yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for 
you. 

O  hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  !  I 
fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less  ;  yet  — 

Hear  my  conditions  :  promise  (other- 
wise 

You  perish)  as  you  came  to  slip  away, 

To-day,  to-moiTow,  soon  :  it  shall  be 
said, 

These  women  were  too  barbarous, 
would  not  learn  ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us  : 
promise,  all." 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised 

each  ;  and  she, 
Like  some  wild  creature  newly  caged, 

commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 
By  Florian  ;  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took    both    his    hands,    and    smiling 

faintly  said : 
"  I  knew  you  at  the  first :   tho'  you 

have  grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd  :  I  am  sad  and 

glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.     /  give  thee  to 

death. 
My  brother  !  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  L 
Mv  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon 

it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well  ?  " 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His  forehead,   then,  a  moment  after, 

clung 
About   him,   and   betwixt   them  blos- 

soin'd  up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 


Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of 

the  hcartli,  • 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  lail  :  and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a 

voice, 
"  I  brought  a  message  here  from  Lady 

Blanclie." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round 

we  saw 
The  Lady   Blanche's  d.iughtcr  where 

she  stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  co.lege  gown, 
Tii.it  clad  her  like  an  April  daift)du;y 
(Her  mother's  color)  with  hor  iip  .apart. 
And  all  her  thoughts  ai  fair  within  her 

eyes, 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morningse.is. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at 

the  door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche,  "Ah— Melissa  — 

you  ! 
You  heard   us  ? "    and   Melissa,    "  O 

pardon  me  ! 
I  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not 

wish  : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me 

not. 
Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my 

breast, 
To  give   three  gallant   gentlemen  to 

death." 
"  I  trust  you,"  said  the  other,  "  for  we 

two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm 

and  vine  : 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  temper- 
ament— 
Let  not  your  prudenc, dearest,  drowse, 

or  prove 
The  Danaid  of  a  leaky  v.ise,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 
My  honor,  these  their  lives.".  "Ah, 

tear  me  not," 
Replied  .Melissa;  "no  — I  would  not  tell, 
No,  not  for  all  .\spasi  I's  clevenies.s, 
No,  not  to  answer,  Midam,  all  those 

hard  things 
Th.it  Sheba  c.ime  to  ask  of  Solomon." 
"  Be  it  so,"  tlie  other,  "  that  we  still 

may  lead 


126 


THE   PRINCESS: 


j       The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in 
I  peace, 

For  Solomon  may  come  to  Shebayet." 
Said  Cyril,  "  Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar  :  nor  should  you 
(Tho'  madam  yo2i  should  answer,  -we 

would  ask) 
Less  welcome   find  among  us,  if  you 

came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you. 
Myself  for  something  more."    He  said 

not  what. 
But   "Thanks,"  she  answer'd,  "go: 

we  have  been  too  long 
Together  :  keep  your  hoods  about  the 

face  ; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little  ;  mix  not  with  the  rest ; 

and  hold 
Your  promise  ;  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be 

well." 

We  turn'd  to  go.  but  Cyril  took  the 
child, 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 

his  waist. 
And  blew  the  swoU'n  cheek  of  a  trum- 
peter, 
While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  smiling, 

and  the  child 
Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face 

and  laugh'd  ; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  strolled 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.      In   each   we 

sat,  we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.     On  the  lecture 

slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
Witli  flawless  demonstration  :  follow'd 

then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment. 
With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  lilted 

out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And    quoted    odes,    and    jewels   five- 
words-ion;; 
That  on  the  stietch'd  forefinger  of  all 

Time 
Sparkle  forever  :  tlien  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state. 
The  lotal  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 


The  morals,  something  of  the  frama, 

the  rock, 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell, 

the  flower. 
Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 
And  whatsoever   can   be    taught   and 

known  ; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 

fence, 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep 

in  corn. 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and 

I  spoke  : 
"  Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as 

we." 
"They   hunt   old  trails,"    said  Cyril, 

"  very  well  ; 
But  when    did   woman    ever   yet    in- 
vent? " 
"  Ungracious  !  "     answer'd      Florian, 

"  have  you  learnt 
No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you 

that  talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  al- 
most sad?  " 
"  O  trash,"  he  said,  "  but  with  a  kernel 

in  it. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made 

me  wise  ? 
And  learnt  ?    I  learnt  more  from  her 

in  a  flash, 
Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty 

hull. 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these 

halls. 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby 

loves 
Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the 

hearts. 
Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang ; 

but  O 
With  me.  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy, 
The    Head  of  all   the   golden-shafted 

firm. 
The  long-limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche 

too  ; 
He  cleft  me  thro'  the  stomacher  ;  and 

nf)w 
What  think  you  of  it,   Florian  ?  do   t 

chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  ?  will  it 

hold  ? 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me, 


A    MEDLEY. 


127 


No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his   High- 
ness.    I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  ever>'Avhere 
1  know  the  substance  when  I  see  it. 

Weil, 
Are  castles  shadows  ?   Three  of  them  ? 

Is  she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  ?    If 

not, 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tat- 

ter'd  cmt  ? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 

wants, 
And   dear    is    si>ter    Psyche    to    my 

heart. 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 

worth. 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that 

my  zone 
Unmann'd  nie  :  then  the  Doctors  !    O 

to  hear 
The  Doctors  !  O  to  watch  the  thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing  I  once  or  twice  I  thought  to 

roar, 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane  : 

but  thou. 
Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mim- 
icry I 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my 

throat  ; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to 

meet 
Star-sisters   answering  under  crescent 

brows  ; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man, 

and  loose 
A  flying  charm   of  blushes   o'er   this 

cheek. 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out 

of  time 
Will  wonder  why  they  came  :  but  hark 

the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  !  " 

And  in  we  stream'd 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and 

still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to 

end 
With  beauties  ever}'  shade   of  brown 

and  fair, 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist. 
The  long  nail   glitter'd  like  a  bed  of 
flowers. 


How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his 

wits 
Pierced   thro'   with   eyes,   but   that  I 

kept  mine  own 
Intent  on   her,  who  rapt  in  glorious 

dreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astraean  age, 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors :  they, 

the  while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro  : 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mixt  with  inmost 

terms 
Of  art  and   science  :    Lady   Blanche 

alone 
Of  faded   form   and  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 
With  all  her  Autumn   tresses   falsely 

brown. 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  sprmg. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gar- 
dens :  there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read. 
And  smoothed  a  petted  peacock  down 

with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by. 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heat :  some 

hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets :  others  tost  a 

ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  again 
With  laughter  :  others  lay  about  the 

lawns, 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that 

their  May 
Was  passing  :  what  was  learning  unto 

them? 
They  wish'd  to  marry  ;  they  could  rule 

a  house  ; 
Men   hated   learned   women  :  but  we 

three 
Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates  ;  and  often 

came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity. 
That  harm'd  not  :   then  day  droopt ; 

the  chapel  bells 
Call'd  us  :  we  left  the  walks  ;  we  mixt 

with  those 
Six  hundred   maidens   clad  in  purest 
while. 


128 


THE   PRINCESS. 


Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall 

to  wall, 
While   the  great   organ   almost  burst 

his  pipes, 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro' 

the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies, 
The  work  of  Ida,  to  call   down  from 

Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty 
one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sTeep  and  rest. 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  sleep. 


III. 

Morn   in    the   white  wake   of  the 

morning  star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with 

care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three 

parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses'  heads  were 

touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native 

East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the 
fount,  and  watch'd 

Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bub- 
ble, approach'd 

Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 
sleep, 


Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy 

eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears  ; 
"And  fly,"   she  cried,    "O  fly,  while 

yet  you  may  ! 
My  mother  knows  "  :  and  when  I  ask'd 

her  "how," 
"  My  fault,"  she  wept,  "  my  fault !  and 

yet  not  mine  ; 
Yet  mme  in  part.     O  hear  me,  pardon 

me. 
My  mother,  't  is  her  wont  from  night 

to  night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been 

the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms  ; 
And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they 

came  ; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand 

now. 
And  she  the  left,   or  not,   or  seldom 

used  ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 

the  love. 
And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass 

you  : 
"Her  countrywomen !  she  did  not  envy 

her. 
Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 
Girls  ?  —  more  like  men  !  "  and  at  these 

words  the  snake. 
My  secret,  seem'd   to  stir  within  my 

breast ; 
And  O,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my 

cheek 
Began  to  bum  and  bum,  and  her  lynx 

eye 
To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,   till  she 

la  ugh 'd  : 
"  O  marvellously  modest  maiden,  you  ! 
Men  !  girls,  like  men  !  why,  if  they  had 

been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  ru- 
bric thus 
For  wholesale  comment."     Pardon,  I 

am  shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  my  excuse 
What  looks  so  little  graceful  :  "  men  " 

(for  still 
My  mother    went .  revolving    on    the 

word) 
"  And  so  they  are,  —  very  like  men  in- 
deed— 


'The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story. 


A    MEDLEY 


■A    far 


Ar.a    ^--h    '.h^'    *    rr..in 

111':-.    '■■■■■■:      <;    .;;.......;    «   .T'it   ovt 

one  Ir,  ■mc,  • 

"  Why  —  thcx  —  tfry  —  men  "  :  I 
^hui-irr'fi  :  "  and  you  know  iL" 

'■'  I  kaid:  "And 

A.  So  ny  mochcr 

The  tnith  at  once,  bot  with  oo  watd 

tr<m  rnc  ; 
Ar.d  r.<>«  thiit  early  men  the  foe*  to 

ir.'ornj 
Tlx    IV  rw.-,^:   Lady  Ptycht  will  be 

f  ri ...  .i  ; 
But  ><  .:  m  )>  yet  be  ttvcd,  and  thtn- 

t'.re  !iy  ; 

Hut  heal  me  with  yoor  pankm  crt  yoa 

"  What  fardon,  tw««t  MrKwa ,  fi>r  a 
Saul  (  vr.  Pale  ofic,  himh  ^m: 
Thr^     .'.    better   biuOi   oar  IHak 

Yet  let  iM  breathe  fce  one  hovr  moc*  in 

Heaven," 
He  added,  "lest  lome  daaeic  An^d 

apeak 
In  •com  of  M,  *  they  moanted,  Gaay- 


To  tnmbic,   Vulcan*,  on  the  Mcood 


Rut  I  will  melt  th»  marble  into  wax 
To  jncld  a*  £mhcr  huUivt^  "  :  and  h* 
went. 

Meii^vi  thrK>k  her  doobtfol  cwfas 

He  vjrr.    .     ,'d  prrwper.     "Tellna," 


Hriw 

a 

f)   !  • 


'^etwixt  the  ri(|ic 


.    r,d 

.    with 

the  *if» 
Itoafcnl; 


And 


Sh*  h 

A...: 


«tat««r 

vn«tK, 


I    but 

Of  I 
,     (Fix 


Co— onint  chord*  that  fthivcr  to  one 

note  ; 
One  mind  m  all  thinfa :  yet  my  mother 

Mill 

AfhrRM  your  Ptfchc  thirred  her  theo- 
ries 

And  anicicd  with  theai  lot  her  popii't 
lo^e  : 

She  caiU  her  pUfiahat;  I  kaow  not 
what: 

Bat  I  mtt«t  CO :  I  dare  not  tarry,"  and 
Nsht, 

A*  «M»  the  ahadow  of  a  bM,  ahe  fl«L 


Then  mormor'd  FWiaim 
her: 

An  '■'T'^n  n'?aTted 


If  I 
Her 


.\or  li-«!  {• 


rtcew  ciamm'd  with 
T  t'»ycJie  whom  mc  draft 


IT** 

Aac 

My 

Bo* 


r?,' 


irmor  of  the  ^ovo. 


m  aack  to  the 
my  pnnce«»  t 


adf 


Thro*  time*  mora  aobl*  thaa  throo* 


And  ao  Utc  w«ar«  her  errrir  lik*  a  crow* 
To  bfaid  (he  ir«(h  md  mm-,  fcr  hsr. 


13° 


THE  PRINCESS. 


Hebes    are    they  to   hand   ambrosia, 

mix 
The  nectar;   but — ah  she  —  whene'er 

she  moves 
The  Samian  Her^  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning 

Sun." 

So  saying  from  the  court  we  paced, 

and  gain'd 
The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Northern 

front, 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters, 

high 
Above     the     empurpled     champaign, 

drank  the  gale 
That  blown   about  the  foliage  under- 
neath. 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose. 
Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.     Hither 

came 
Cyril,  and  yawning  "  O  hard  task,"  he 

cried  : 
"  No  fighting  shadows  here  !     I  forced 

a  way 
Thro'    solid   opposition    crabb'd    and 

gnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and 

thump 
A  league  of  street  in  summer  solstice 

down. 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter' d ;  found 

her  there 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her 

eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming 

storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well- 

oil'd. 
As  man's  could  be  ;  yet  maiden-meek 

I  pray'd 
Concealment :  she  demanded  who  we 

were, 
And  why  we  came  ?     I  fabled  nothing 

fair, 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and 

eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affi- 
ance. 
She   answer'd    shai-ply  that    I   talk'd 

astray. 


I   urged  the  fierce  inscription   on  the 

gate, 
And  our  three  lives.     True  —  we  had 

limed  ourselves, 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the 

chance. 
But  such   extremes,    I   told   her,  well 

might  harm 
The  woman's  cause.     "  Not  more  than 

now,"  she  said, 
"So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favorftism." 
I    tried    the    mother's   heart.      Shame 

might  befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saj'ingnot  she  knew: 
Her  answer  was,   "  Leave  me  to  deal 

with  that." 
I    spoke   of  war  to   come   and   many 

deaths. 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak, 
And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 
I  grew  discouraged.  Sir ;  but  since  I 

knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May   beat   admission    in    a   thousand 

years, 
I  recommenced  :  "  Decide  not  ere  you 

pause. 
I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place 
Some   say   the    third  —  the    authentic 

foundress  you. 
I  offer  boldly  :  we  will  seat  you  high- 
est: 
Wink  at  our  advent :  help  my  prince 

to  gain 
His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise 

you 
Some  palace  in  our  land,  where   you 

shall  reign 
The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world, 
And   your  great   name   flow   on   with 

broadening  time 
Forever."      Well,  she  balanced  this  a 

little. 
And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to- 
day, 
Meantnne  be  mute  :   thus  much,  nor 
more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from  the 
Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to 

take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  NortJi. 


A    MEDLEY. 


'3! 


Would  we  go  with  her?  we  should  find 

the  land 
Worth  seeing  ;  and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder  "  :  then  slie  pointed  on  to 

where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the 

vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro' 

all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed 

hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went. 

She  stood 
Among   her  maidens,   higher  by  the 

head, 
Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on 

one 
Of  those   tame   leopards.     Kittenlike 

he  roH'd 
And  paw'd  about  her  sandal.     I  drew 

near; 
I   gazed.      On  a   sudden   my  strange 

seizure  came 
Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house: 
The  Princess  Idaseem'da  hollowshow. 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy, 
Her  college  and  her  maidens,   empty 

masks, 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet 

I  felt  _        , 

My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  ani 

with  awe  ; 
Tlien  from  my  breast  the  involuntary 

sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  ligh« 

of  eyes 
That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  ana 

shook 
Afy  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following  up 
The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said  : 
"O  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd 

us  not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester- 

mom  ; 
Unwillingly  we   spake."     "No  — not 

to  her," 
I  answer'd,  "but  to  one  of  whom  we 

spake 


Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  th^ 

thmg  you  say." 
"Again?"  she  cried,  "  are  you  ambas« 

sadresses 
From  him  to  me  ?   we  give  you,  bcin^ 

strange, 
A  license  ;  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him  — could 
liave  wish'd  — 

"  Our  king  expects —  was  there  no  pre- 
contract ? 

There  is  no  truer-hearted  —  ah,  you 
seem 

All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  sew 

The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but 
long'd 

To  follow:  sureIy,ifyour  Highney3keep 

Your  purjJort.  you  will  shock  hftn  ev'n 
to  death. 

Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair." 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "can  he  not 

read  —  no  books  ? 
Quoit,    tennis,  ball  —  no  games?    nor 

deals  ic  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exer- 
cise? 
To  r.urse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
ftiethinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a 

girl : 
As  girls  were   once,  as  we  ourselves 

have  been  : 
We  had  our  dreams  ;  perhaps  he  mixt 

with  them  : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  «^lf,  nor  shun 

to  do  it. 
Being    other  —  since    we    learnt    our 

meaning  here. 
To  hft  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity^ 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  willi  man." 

She  paused,  and  added  w  ilh  a  haugh- 
tier smile : 

"  And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 
friend. 

At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourseK-es 
and  thee. 

O  Vaslui,  noble  Vashti !  Summon'd 
out 

She  kept  her  staie,  and  left  the  drunk- 
en king 

Tw  orawl  at  Sliushan  underneath  tlie 
palms." 


132                                            THE  PRINCESS: 

"  Alas  vour  Highness  breathes  full 

More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 

East,"  I  said. 

And  sees  him  err  :  nor  would  we  work 

"  On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know 

for  fame ; 

the  Prince, 

Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  ap- 

I prize  his  truth  :  and  then  how  vast  a 

plause  of  Great, 

work 

Who  learns  the  one  pou  STo  whence 

To  assail   this   gray    pre-eminence  of 

after-hands 

man  ! 

May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself 

You  grant  me  license  ;  might  I  use  it  ? 

effect 

think, 

But  little  :  wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 

Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life 

shrink 

may  fail ; 

For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 

Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 

By  frail  successors.     Would,   indeed, 

plan, 

we  had  been. 

And  takes  and  ruins  all ;  and  thus  your 

In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 

pains 

Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years, 

May  only   make   that  footprint   upon 

That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out, 

sand 

and  watch 

Which  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 

The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone." 

Resmooth  to  nothing :  might  I  dread 

that  you, 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  my- 

With only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your 

self 

great  deeds 

If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 

For  issue,   yet  may  live  in  vain,  and 

grand 

miss. 

Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts 

And   she  broke   out   interpreting  my 

her  due, 

thoughts : 

Love,  children,  happiness?" 

And  she  exclaim'd. 

"  No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  mon- 

"Peace,   you  young    savage   of   the 

ster  to  you  ; 

■  Northern  wild  ! 

We  are  used'to  that:  for  women,  up 

What !   tho'  your  Prince's   love  were 

till  this 

like  a  God's, 

Cramp'd  under  worse  than  South-sea- 

Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice  ? 

isle  taboo, 

You  are  bold  jndeed  :  we  are  not  talk'd 

Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceium,  fail  so  far 

to  thus  ;• 

In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 

Yet  will  we  say  for  children,   would 

guess 

they  grew 

How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion 

Like  field-flowers  everj'^vhere  !  we  like 

to  us. 

them  well : 

If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker 

But  children  die  ;  and  let  me  tell  you. 

proof — 

girl, 

O  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 

Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  can- 

By s^o^v  approaches,  than  by  single  act 

not  die  : 

Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 

They  with  the   sun   and  moon  renew 

We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against 

their  light 

the  pikes. 

Forever,  blessing  those   that  look  on 

Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it. 

them. 

To  compass  our  dear  sister's  liberties." 

Children  —  that  men  may  pluck  them 

from  our  hearts. 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear  ; 

Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  our- 

And up  we  came   to  where  the  river 

selves — 

sloped 

0  —  children  —  there  is  nothing  upon 

To  plunge   in    cataract,  shattering  on 

earth 

black  blocks 

A   MEDLEY. 


'3? 


A  breadth  of  thunder.     O'er  it  shook 

the  woods. 
And  danced   the    color,    and,   below, 

stuck  out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived 

and  roar'd 
Before   man  was.     She  gazed  awhile 

and  said, 
"  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  arc  we  to 

her 
That  will  be."     "Dare  we   dream  of 

that,"  I  ask'd, 
"  Wliich  wrought  us,  as  the  workman 

and  his  work, 
That  practice  betters  ?  "     "  How,"  she 

cried,  "  you  love 
The  metaphysics  !  read  and  earn  our 

prize, 
A  golden  broach  :  beneath  an  emerald 

plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock ;  our  device  ;  wrought  to 

the  lite  ; 
She    ra;n    upon    her   subject,   he    on 

her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."     "  And 

yet,"  I  said, 
"  Methinks  I  have  not  found  among 

them  all 
One  anatomic."     "Nay,  we  thought 

of  that," 
She  answer'd,  "  but  it  pleased  us  not : 

in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids 

should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the 

living  hound, 
Anrf  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of 

the  grave. 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart, 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
Dabbling    a     shameless     hand     with 

shameful  jest, 
Encanialize  their  spirits  :  yet  we  know 
Knowledge    is    knowledge,    and    this 

matter  hangs : 
Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty. 
Nor  willing  men  should  come  among 

us,  learnt. 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came. 
This  craft  of  healing.     Were  you  sick, 

ourself" 
Would  tend  upon  you.     To  your  ques- 
tion now. 


Which  touches  on  the  workman  and 

his  work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light : 

't  is  so  : 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is ; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once. 
The  birth  of  light :  but  we  ilial  are  not 

all. 
As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this, 

now  that, 
And  live,    perforce,    from   thought  to 

thought,  and  make 
One  act  a  phantom  of  succession  :  thus 
Our   weakness   somehow   shapes    the 

shadow,  Time  ; 
But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and 

mould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  day." 

She  spake 
With  kindled  eyes :  we  rode  a  league 

beyond. 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinewood  cross- 
ing, came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 
Full  of  all  beauty.     "  O  how  sweet,"  I 

said, 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask.) 
"  To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved 

us."     "Vea," 
She  answer'd,   "or  with  fair  philoso- 
phies 
That  lift  the  fancy :  for  indeed  these 

fields 
Are   lovely,   lovelier  not   the  Elysian 

lawns. 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and 

saw 
The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned 

towers 
Built  to  the  Sun  "  :  then,  turning  to 

her  maids. 
"  Pitch    our   pavilion    here   upon   the 

sward  ; 
Lay  out  the   viands."     At  the  word, 

they  raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  uTought 
With  fair  Coriuna's  triumph  ;  here  she 

stood. 
Engirt  with    many   a  florid    maiden- 
cheek. 
The    woman-conqueror ;    woman-con- 

quer'd  there 
The   bearded   Victor   of  ten-thousan«f 

liymns. 


134 


THE   PRINCESS: 


And  all  the  men  moum'd  at  his  side  : 

but  we 
Set   forth   to  climb;    then,   climbing, 

Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche,  %vith  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianced.      Many  a  little 

hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on 

the  rocks, 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel 

set 
In  the  dark  crag  :  and  then  we  tum'd, 

we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 
Hammering   and   clinking,   chattering 

stony  names 
Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap 

and  tuff, 
Amygdaloid    and    trachyte,    till    the 

Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and 

fell,  and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the 

lawns. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,   echoes,   dying, 
dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear  I  how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 
O  sweet  and  far  fnnn  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  EMand  faintly  blow- 
ing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  re- 
plying : 
Blow,  bugle  ;   answer,   echoes,  dying, 
dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
And  answer,    echoes,    answer,    dying, 
dying,  dying. 


IV. 

"  There  sinks  the   nebulous  star  we 

call  the  Sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound," 
Said  Ida  ;    "let  us  down  and  rest  "  : 

and  we 
Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  pre- 
cipices. 
By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and 

cleft, 
Dropt  thro'   the  ambrosial   gloom   to 

where  below 
No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the 

tent 
Lamp-lit   from  the  inner.     Once  she 

lean'd  on  me. 
Descending  ;   once  or  twice  she  lent 

her  hand. 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood. 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and 

fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and 

dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider'd  down 

we  sank 
Our  elbows  :  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  ft-agrant  flame  rose,  and   before  us 

glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and 

gold. 

Then  she,  "  Let  some  one  sing  to  us  : 

lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledged  with  music  "  :  and 

a  maid, 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp, 

and  sang. 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what 

they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine 

despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the 

eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering 
on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  th<» 
underworld. 


'  In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


A    MEDLEY. 


'35 


Sad  as  tha  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 

verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

"Ah,  sad  and   strange   as  in   dark 
summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  othalf-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmer- 
ing square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are 
no  more. 

"  Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after 
death. 

And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy 
feign 'd 

On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 

Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  re- 
gret; 

O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 
more." 

She  ended  with  such   passion  that 

the  tear. 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring 

pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom  :   but  with  some 

disdain 
Answer'd  the    Princess :   "  If  indeed 

there  haunt 
About  the  moulder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men, 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 

with  wool 
And  so  pace  by  :  but  thine  are  fancies 

hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness  ;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones 

be. 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 

each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs 

of  ice. 
Throne  after  throne,   and  molten  on 

the  waste 
Becomes  a  cloud :  for  all  things  serve 

their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights 

and  rights, 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in 

the  end 


Found  golden  :   let  the  past  be  past ; 

let  be 
Their  cancell'd  Babels :  tho'  the  rough 

kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  wild  goat 

hang 
Upon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig-tree 

split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while 

we  hear 
A   trumpet   in   the    distance    pealing 

news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle, 

burns 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow"  :  then  to 

me, 
"  Know   you   no    song    of   your   own 

land,"  she  said, 
"  Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retro- 
spect. 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and 

the  hues 
Of  promise  ;  not  a  death's-head  at  the 

wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had 
made, 

^Vhat  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  wing- 
ing south 

From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part 

Now  while  1  sang,  and  maidenlike  as 
far 

As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I 
sing. 

"  O  .Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying 

South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall   upon  her  gilded 

eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to 

thee. 

"O    tell    her,    Swallow,    thou    that 

knowest  each. 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the 

.South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the 

North. 

"  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  fol- 
low, and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million 
loves. 


136 


THE   PRINCESS: 


"O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take 

me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bOsom,  and  her 

heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

"  Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her 

heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods 

are  green  ? 

"  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood 

is  flown  : 
Say  to  her,   I   do  but  wanton  in  the 

South 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is 

made. 

"  O  tell  her,  brief  is  life,  but  love  is 

long. 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the 

North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the 

South. 

"  O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden 

woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and 

make  her  mine. 
And  tell   her,  tell  her,   that  I  follow 

thee." 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at 

each, 
Like   the    Ithacensian    suitors   in    old 

time, 
Stared   with  great  eyes,    and  laugh'd 

with  alien  lips. 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant  ;  for 

still  my  voice 
Rang  false  :     but   smiling,   "  Not   for 

thee,"  she  said, 
"  O  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall   burst   her  veil  :     marsh-divers, 

rather,  maid, 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 
Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass  : 

and  this 
A  mere    love-poem  !    O  for  such,  my 

friend. 
We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  us  of 

the  time 
When    we    made    bricks    in     Egypt. 

Knaves  are  men, 


That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tenderness, 

And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up. 

And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Par- 
adise, 

And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 

Poor  soul !  I  had  a  maid  of  honor  once  ; 

She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such  a 
one, 

A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 

I  loved  her.  Peace  be  with  her.  She 
is  dead. 

So  they  blaspheme  the  muse  !  but  great 
is  song 

Used  to  great  ends  :  ourself  have  often 
tried 

Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have 
dash'd 

The  passion  of  the  prophetess ;  for  song 

Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 

Of  spirit,  than  to  junketing  and  love. 

Love  is  it  ?  Would  this  same  mock- 
love,  and  this 

Mock- Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter 
bats. 

Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth, 

Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 

To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills, 
and  sphered 

Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 
Enough  ! 

But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you, 

Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 
your  soil. 

That  gives  the  manners  of  your  coun- 
trywomen?" 

She  spoke  and  tum'd  her  sumptuous 
head  with  eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 

Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for 
such  a  song, 

Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd  flask 
had  wrought. 

Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 

To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 

Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  expe- 
riences 

Unmeet  for  ladies.  Florian  nodded  at 
him, 

I  frowning  ;  Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd 
and  shook  ; 

The  lilylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows; 

"  Forbear,"  the  Princess  cried  ;  "  For- 
bear, Sir,"  I  ; 


A    MEDLEY 


137 


And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath 

and  love, 
I  smote  him  on  the  breast ;  he  started 

up; 
There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd  ; 
Melissa  clamor'd,   "  Flee  the  death  "  ; 

"  To  horse," 
Said  Ida  ;  "  home  I  to  horse  !  "    and 

fled,  as  flies 
A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the 

dusk. 
When  some  one  batters  at  the  dove- 
cote-doors. 
Disorderly  the  women.     Alone  I  stood 
With    Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at 

heart, 
In  the  pavilion :  there  like  parting  hopes 
I  heard  them  passing  from  me  :  hoof 

by  hoof. 
And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 
Clang'd    on    the    bridge  ;    and    then 

another  shriek, 
"The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess, 

O  the  Head  !  " 
For  blind  with   rage   she   miss'd  the 

plank,  and  roU'd 
In  the  river.     Out  I  sprang  from  glow 

to  gloom  : 
There  whirl'd  Jier  white  robe  like  a 

blossom'd  branch 
Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall  :  a  glance  I 

gave, 
No  more  ;  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 
Plunged  ;  and  the  flood  drew ;  yet  I 

caught  her ;  then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the 

world, 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.    A  tree 
Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and 

stoop'd 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gur- 
gling wave 
Mid-channel.     Right  on  this  we  drove 

and  caught. 
And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I  gain'd 

the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmer- 

ingly  group'd 
In  the   hollow  bank.     One   reaching 

forward  drew 
My  burthen   from   mine   arms ;    they 

cried,  "  She  lives  !  " 


They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent :  but  I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me 

WTOUght, 

Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening 
eyes. 

Nor  found  my  friends  ;  but  push'd 
alone  on  foot 

(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her 
mine) 

Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian 
craft      _      ; 

Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found 
at  length 

The  garden  portals.  Two  great  stat- 
ues. Art 

And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 

A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 
valves 

Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 

His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his 
brows 

Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  there- 
upon 

Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked 
the  gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the 

horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top 

with  pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  4inden 

walks. 
And,  tost  on  thoughts   that  changed 

from  hue  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glowworm,  now  the 

star, 
I  paced  the  terrace,  till  the  bear  had 

wheel 'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 
A  step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncer- 
tain gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  "  if  this 

were  she," 
But  it  was  Florian.     "  Hist,  O  hist," 

he  said, 
"  They  seek  us  :  out  so  late  is  out  of 

rules. 
Moreover  '  Seize  the  strangers'  is  the 

cry. 
How  came   you   here  ? "  I  told  him  : 

"  I,"  said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 


'38 


THE   PRINCESS. 


To  whom    none   spake,    half-sick    at 

heart,  return'd. 
Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  crept  into  the  hall. 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  under- 
neath 
The   head  of  Holofemes  peep'd  and 

saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial :  each 
Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us  :  last  of 

all, 
Melissa:  trust  me,  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at 

first 
Was  silent ;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not : 
And   then,    demanded   if  her  mother 

knew. 
Or  Psyche,  she  affirm'd  not,  or  denied  : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind^  familiar 

with  her. 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.     She  sent 
For  Psyche,   but  she  was  not  there  ; 

she  call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  cast  it  from  the 

doors ; 
She  sent  for  Blanche   to  accuse   her 

face  to  face  ; 
And  I  slipt  out :  but  whither  will  you 

now? 
And  where   are   Psyche,    Cyril  ?  both 

are  fled  : 
What,  if  together  ?  that  _were  not  so 

well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  !   I 

dread 
His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the 

dark." 

"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  you  wrong  him 

more  than  I 
That  struck  liim  :  this  is  proper  to  the 

clown, 
Tho'  smock'd,  or  furr'd  and  purpled, 

still  the  clown, 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and 

to  shame 
That  which  he  says  he  loves  :  for  Cyril, 

howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  —  the  song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in 

grosser  lips 
Beyond  all  pardon  —  as  it  is,  I  hold 
These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 


But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Tho'  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is 
he." 

Scarce  had  I  ceased  when  from   a 

tamarisk  near 
Two   Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crj'ing, 

"  Names," 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd  ;  but  I 

began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and 

race 
By  all  the  fountains :   fleet  I  was  of 

foot  : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes  ; 

behind 
I  heard  the  pufPd  pursuer  ;  at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale   and   heeded 

not. 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine. 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and 

known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where 
she  sat 

High  in  the  hall  :  above  her  droop'd  a 
lamp, 

And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her  brow 

Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast- 
head. 

Prophet  of  storm  :  a  handmaid  on  each 
side 

Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her 
long  black  hair 

Damp  from  the  river ;  and  close  be- 
hind her  stood 

Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger 
than  men. 

Huge  women  blowzed  with  health,  and 
wind,  and  rain. 

And  labor.  Each  was  like  a  Druid 
rock  ; 

Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 

Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about 
with  mews. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  divid- 
ing clove 
An   advent  to  the  throne  ;  and  thero- 
beside. 


A    MEDLEY. 


139 


Half-naked,  as  if  caught  at  once  from 

bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth, 

lay 
The  lily-shining  child  ;  and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on   her  palms   and  folded  up 

from  wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 

her  sobs, 
Melissa  knelt ;  but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

"  It  was  not  thus,  O  Princess,  in  old 
days  : 

You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my 
lips  : 

I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies  ; 

I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse  ; 

I  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you 
me 

Your  second  mother  :  those  were  gra- 
cious times. 

Then  came  your  new  friend  :  you  be- 
gan to  change  — 

I  saw  it  and  grieved  —  to  slacken  and 
to  cool  ; 

Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 

You  turn'd  your  warmer  currents  all  to 
her, 

To  me  vou  froze  :  this  was  my  meed 
for  all. 

Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  from  ancient  love. 

And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  you 
back. 

And  partly  conscious  of  myowm  deserts, 

And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head. 

And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  some- 
thing great. 

In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker  be. 

When  time  should  serve  ;  and  thus  a 
noble  scheme 

Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since 
had  sown  ; 

In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's 
gourd. 

Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun  : 

We  took  this  palace  ;  but  even  from  the 
first 

You  stood  in  jour  own  light  and  dark- 
en'd  mme. 

What  student  came  but  that  you  planed 
her  path 

To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 

A  foreigner,  and  I  your  countrywoman, 


I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in 

all? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and  mine 

were  lean  ; 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  hope  she  would  bs 

known : 
Then  came  these  wolves  :  they  knew 

her :  they  endured. 
Long-closeted  with  her  the  yestermom, 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to 

hear : 
And  me  none  told  :  not  less  to  an  eye 

like  mine, 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal. 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and 

my  foot 
Was  to  you :  but  I  thought  again  :  I 

fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  you,  we 

shall  hear  of  it 
From  Lady  Psyche  '  :  you  had  gone  to 

her. 
She  told,  perforce  ;  and  winning  easy 

grace, 
No  doubt,   for  slight  delay,  remain'd 

among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown, 

the  stem 
Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 

honest  heat 
Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 
To  push   my  rival  out  of  place   and 

power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should  be 

known  ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public 

use, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 
I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch'd 

them  well. 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 

done  ; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho*  you  should  hate 

me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you  ;  found  that  you  had 

gone, 
Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise  :  now, 

I  thought. 
That  surely  she   will  speak  ;   if  not, 

then  I  : 
Did   she?    These   monsters  blazon'd 

what  they  were. 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their 

kind, 


140                                            THE  PRINCESS: 

For  thus  I  bear ;  and  known  at  last 

A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.     Fear 

(my  work) 

Stared  in  her  eyes,   and  chalk'd  her 

And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 

face,  and  wing'd 

I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame, 

Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she 

she  flies  ; 

fell 

And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your 

Delivering  seal'd  despatches  which  che 

rage, 

Head 

I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up 

Took   half-amazed,   and   in  her  lion's 

yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 

mood 

Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 

and  time, 

Regarding,   while   she   read,  till    over 

And  talents,  I  —  you  know  it —  I  will 

brow 

not  boast : 

And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrath- 

Dismiss me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan, 

ful  bloom 

Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be 

As  of  some  fire  against  a  stormy  cloud, 

chaff 

When  the  \yild  peasant  rights  himself. 

For  ever}'  gust  of  chance,  and  men  will 

the  rick 

say' 

Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the 

We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but 

heavens ; 

chased 

For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now 

The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot 

her  breast. 

can  tread." 

Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her 

heart. 
Palpitated,  her  hand   shook,    and  w^e 

She  ceased  :  the  Princess  answer'd 

coldly  "  Good : 

heard 

Your  oath  is  broken  :  we  dismiss  you  : 

In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 

go- 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 

held 

Rustle  :  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 

child) 

Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam  ; 

Our  mind  is  changed  :  we  take  it  to 

The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire  ;  -she 

ourselves." 

crush'd 

The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture 

turn 

throat. 

As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her. 

And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard 

She  whirl'd  them  on   to  me,  as  who 

smile. 

should  say 

"  The   plan   was   rnine.      I    built   the 

"Read,"  and  I  read  —  two  letters — ■ 

nest,"  she  said. 

one  her  sire's. 

"  To  hatch  the  cuckoo.     Rise  !  "  and 

stoop'd  to  updrag 

"  Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the 

Melissa  :  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt. 

Prince  your  way 

Half-drooping    from    her,    tum'd   her 

We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws, 

face,  and  cast 

which  learnt. 

A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer. 

We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are 

Whicli  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she 

built. 

hung. 

Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but 

A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 

fell 

Appealing  to   t"he  bolts  of  Heaveit; 

Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this 

and  while 

night. 

We  gazed  u]ion  her  came  a  little  stir 

You  lying  close  upon  his  territory. 

About   the   doors,    and   on   a   sudden 

Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested 

rush'd 

you. 

Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pur- 

And here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 

sued, 

son." 

A   MEDLEY. 


»4i 


The  second  was  my  father's,  running 

thus  : 
'*  You  have  our  son  :  touch  not  a  hair 

of  his  head  : 
Render  him  up  unscathed  :  give  him 

your  hand  : 
Cleave  to  your  contract :  tho'  indeed 

we  hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man ; 
A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make  all  women  kick  against 

their  lords 
Thro'  all  the  world,  and  which  might 

well  deserve 
That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your 

palace  down  ; 
And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us 

back 
Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole." 

So  far  I  read  ; 
And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impet- 
uously. 

"  O  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  re- 
serve, 
But  led  by  ralden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct ;   not  a  scorner  of  your 

sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be  :   hear  me,  for  I 

bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  your 

wrongs, 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock 

a  life 
Less  mine  than  yours  :  my  nurse  would 

tell  me  of  you  ; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the 

moon, 
Vague   brightness ;   when  a  boy,    you 

stoop' d  to  me 
From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair 

lights, 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost 

south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north ;   at   eve 

and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods; 
Tlie  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of 

glowwonn  light 
The   mellow  breaker  murmur'd   Ida. 

Now, 


Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you,  had 

you  been 
Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  en- 
throned 
Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  woni  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you  :  but,  indeed, 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full 
tongue, 

0  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre  :  let  me  say  but 

this. 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman, 

town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after 

seen 
The   dwarfs    of   presage ;    tho'   when 

known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
iMade  them  worth  knowing  ;  but  in  you 

I  found 
My  boyish  dieam  involved  and  dazzled 

down 
And  master'd,  while  that  after-beauty 

makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to 

hour, 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me 

here. 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 

1  cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they 

say 

The  seal  does  music  :  who  desire  you 
more 

Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ; 
dying  lips. 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do, 

The  breath  of  life  ;  O  more  than  poor 
men  wealth, 

Than  sick  men  health,  —  yours,  yours, 
not  mine,  —  but  half 

Without  you,  with  you,  whole  ;  and  of 
those  lialves 

You  worthiest ;  and  howe'er  you  block 
and  bar 

Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 
I  hold 

That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  de- 
spair. 

But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antago- 
nisms 

To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 

Vet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorized 

Behold  your  father's  letter." 


142 


THE  PRINCESS: 


On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught, 

and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her 

Hps,    _ 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst   and  flood  the  world 

with  foam  : 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but 

there  rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 
Gather'd  together  :  from  the  illumined 

liall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a 

press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded 

ewes, 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  acd  gem- 
like eyes, 
And  gold  and  golden  heads;  they  to 

and  fro 
fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some 

red,  some  pale, 
All   open-mouth'd,   all  gazing  to  the 

Some  crymg  there  was  an  army  m  the 

land. 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very 

walls, 
And  some  they  cared  not ;  till  a  clamor 

grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  woman-built, 
And   worse-confounded :    high    above 

them  stood 
The    placid    marble    Muses,    looking  _ 

peace. 

Not  peace   she  look'd,  the   Head: 

but  rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep 

hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remain- 
ing there 
Fixt   like   a  beacon-tower  above   the 

waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling 

eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 

light 
Dash  themselves  dead.     She  stretch'd- 

her  arms  and  call'd 
Across   the   tumult    and    the    tumult 

fell. 


"What  fear  ye  brawlers?  am  not  I 

your  Head? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 

/  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts :  what  is 

it  ye  fear? 
Peace  !   there  are  those  to  avenge  us 

and  they  come  : 
If  not, — myself  were  like  enough,  O 

girls, 
To  unlurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our 

rights. 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause, 
Die  :   yet  I  blame  ye  not  so  much  for 

fear ; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made 

ye  that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  ye :  but 

for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub  —  you  and  you 

—  I  know 
Your  faces   there   in   the  crowd  —  to- 
morrow morn 
We  hold  a  great  convention  :  then  shall 

they 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 

learn 
With   whom   they   deal,    dismiss'd   in 

shame  to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  house- 
hold stuff, 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's 

fame. 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 

clown. 
The    drunkard's     football,     laughing- 
stocks  of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in 

their  heels, 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 

thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and 

to  scour, 
Forever    slaves    at    home    and    fools 

abroad." 

She,    ending,     waved    her    hands . 

thereat  the  crowd 
Muttermg,    dissolved :     then    with    a 

smile,  that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff, 
When   all   the  glens  are   drown'd   in 

azure  gloom 


A    MEDLEY. 


M3 


Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us 
and  said : 

*'  You  have  done  well  and  like  a  gen- 
tleman, 

And  like  a  prince  :  vou  have  our  thanks 
for  all : 

And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's 
dress : 

Well  have  you  done  and  like  a  gentle- 
man. 

You  saved  our  life  :  we  owe  you  bitter 
thanks : 

Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in 
the  tlood  — 

Then  men  had  said  —  but  now  —  What 
hinders  me 

To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 
both?  — 

Yet  since  our  father — Wasps  in  our 
good  hive, 

You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light  to 
be, 

Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native 
bears  — 

0  would  I  had  his   sceptre    for  one 

hour ! 

You  that  have  dared  to  break  our 
bound,  and  gull'd 

Our  servants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and 
thwarted  us  — 

/  wed  with  thee  !  /  bound  by  pre- 
contract 

Your  bride,  your  bondslave !  not  tho' 
all  the  gold 

That  veins  the  world  were  pack'd  to 
make  your  crown. 

And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord 
you.     Sir, 

Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hate- 
ful to  us : 

1  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you  : 
Begone  :   we   will  not  look  upon  you 

more. 
Heie,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 

the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and 

address'd 
Their  motion  :  twice  I  sought  to  plead 

my  cause. 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 

hands, 


The   weight  of  destiny  :   so  from  her 

face 
I     They  push'd  us,  down  the  steps,  and 

thro'  the  court. 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out 

at  gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a 

petty  mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights 

and  heard 
The  voices  murmuring.     While  I  lis- 

ten'd,  came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 

doubt : 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of 

ghosts ; 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  wo- 
man-guard. 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by 

side. 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the 

kings 
Were  sliadows ;  and  the  long  fantastic 

night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not 

been. 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my 

spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy  ; 
Not  long  ;   I  shook  it  off;  for  spite  of 

doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  \\'as 

one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance 

but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Nor- 
way siui 
Set  into  sunrise  :  then  we  moved  away. 


hy  v( 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
•    He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 
And  strikes  him   dead   for  thine  and 
thee. 


144                                            THE  PRINCESS: 

So  Lilia  sang  :  we  thought  her  half- 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 

possess'd, 

Dazed    me    half-blind  :    I    stood   and 

She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro'  the 

seem'd  to  hear, 

words  ; 

As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind 

And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she 

wakes 

call'd 

A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 

The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sub- 

dies. 

lime  — 

Each  hissing  in   his   neighbor's   ear  ; 

Like   one  that  wislies  at  a  dance   to 

and  then 

change 

A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there 

The  music  —  clapt  her  hands  and  cried 

brake 

for  war, 

On  all   sides,    clamoring  etiquette   to 

Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make 

death 

an  end : 

Unmeasured  mirth  ;  while  now  the  two 

And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 

old  kings 

Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said. 

Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and 

"  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors :  if  I 

down. 

prove 

The  fresh  young  captains  flash'd  their 

Your  knight,    and   fight  your  battle, 

glittering  teeth. 

what  for  me?" 

The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 

It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the 

and  blew. 

tomb 

And    slain   with    laughter    roll'd    the 

Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 

gilded  Squire. 

She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.    "Fight," 

she  said. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 

"  And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 

wet  with  tears, 

and  good." 

Panted  from  weary  sides,  "  King,  you 

He  knightlike  in  his  cap   instead   of 

are  free  ! 

casque, 

We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  son, 

A  cap  of  Tyi-ol  borrow'd  fi-om  the  hall, 

If  this  be  he,  —  or  a  draggled  maw  kin, 

AiTanged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the 

thou, 

Prince. 

That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  m  the 

sludge  "  : 
For  I   was   drench'd  with   ooze,    and 

torn  with  briers. 

V. 

More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the 

sheath, 

Now,    scarce   three    paces    measured 

And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  fi^om  head 

from  the  mound, 

to  heel. 

We  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice. 

Then    sohie    one     sent    beneath    his 

And  "  Stand,  who  goes  1 "    "  Two  from 

vaulted  palm 

the  palace,"  L 

A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him 

"The   second   two:    they    wait,"    he 

"  Look, 

said,  "  pass  on  ; 

He   has   been   among   his    shadows." 

His  Highness_ wakes"  :  and  one,  that 

"  Satan  take 

clash'd  in  arms. 

The   old  women  and  their  shadows  ! 

By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of  can- 

(thus the  King 

vas,  led 

Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight 

Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 

with  men. 

The  drow'sy  folds  of  our  great  ensign 

Go  :  C>Til  told  us  all." 

shake 

As  boys  thr.t  slink 

From  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial 

From  ferule  and  the  trespa.ss-chiding 

tent 

eye. 

Whispers  of  war. 

Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 

A    MEDLEY. 


X4S 


From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman- 
slough 

To  sheatliing  splendors  and  the  goldea 
scale 

Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 

Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 
Earth, 

And    hit    the    northern    hills.       Here 
Cyril  met  us, 

A  little  shy  at  tirst,  but  by  and  by 

We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd 
and  given 

For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace, 
whereon 

Follow'd  his  tale.     Amazed  he   fled 
away 

Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the 
night 

Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping  :  "  then 
we  fell 

Into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she 
lies. 

But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  show'd  a  tent 

A  stone-shot  off:  we  enter'd  in,  and 
there 

Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutre- 
ments, 

Pitiful  sight,  wrapt  in  a  soldier's  c'oak, 

Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from 
head  to  foot, 

And  push'd  by  rude  hands  from  its 
pedestal, 

All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she 
lay: 

And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 

A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  wo- 
manhood, 

Sat  watching  like   a  watcher  by  the 
dead. 

Then   Florian  knelt,   and  "  Come " 

he  whisper'd  to  her, 
"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister:  lie 

not  thus. 
What  have  you  done  but  right  ?   you 

could  not  slay 
Me,   nor   your   prince :   look   up :    be 

comforted  : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 

ought. 
When   fall'n   in    darker  ways."     And 

likewise  I  : 
"  Be  comforted :  have  I  not  lost  her  too, 


In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 

charm 
That  none  has  else   for   me  ?  "     She 

heard,  she  moved. 
She  moan'd,   a  folded  voice  ;  and  up 

she  sat. 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as 

pale  and  smooth 
As   those   that    mourn    half-shrouded 

over  death 
In    deathless    marble.      "  Her,"    she 

said,  "  my  friend  — 
Parted  from  her  —  betray'd  her  cause 

and  mine  — 
Where  shall   I  breathe  ?  why  kept  ye 

not  your  faith  ? 
O  base  and  bad  !    what  comfort  ?  none 

for  me  !  " 
To  whom  remorseful   Cyril,    "  Yet    I 

pray 
Take    comfort  :    live,   dear  lady,    for 

your  child  !  " 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and 

cried. 

"  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah 

my  child. 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see 

no  more  ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of 

care. 
Or  sicken  with  ill  usage,  when  they 

say 
The  child  is  hers  —  for  every  little  fault, 
The  child  is  hers  ;  and  they  will  beat 

my  girl 
Remembering    her    mother  :     O    my 

flower  ! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 

her  hard, 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  -some  cold  reverence  worse  than 

were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  1  was  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they 

made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them 

all  : 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  lorever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 


146 


THE  PRINCESS: 


My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,   my  one 

child : 
And    I  will  take   her  up  and  go  my 

way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her  : 
Ah  !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve 

of  me, 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?  "    "  Be 

comforted," 
Said  Cyril,    "  you  shall  have  it,"   but 

again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone   she 

sank,  and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  caught 

feign  death. 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced 

the  scouts 
With   rumor   of  Prince  Arac  hard  at 

hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle  :  and 

"  Look  you,"  cried 
My  father,   "  that  our  compact  be  ful- 

fill'd: 
You  have  spoilt  this  child  ;  she  laughs 

at  you  and  man  : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me, 

and  him  : 
But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel  and 

fire  ; 
She  yields,  or  war." 

Then  Gama  tum'd  to  me  : 
"  We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy 

time 
With  our  strange  girl  :  and  yet  they 

say  that  still 
You  love   her.     Give   us,    then,    your 

mind  at  large  : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not  ? " 

"  Not  war,  if  possible, 
O  king,"  I  said,  "lest  from  the  abuse 

of  war, 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled 

year, 
The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the 

household  flower 
Tom  from  the  lintel  —  all  the  common 

wrong  — 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to 

her 
Three    times    a    monster:     now    she 

lightens  scorn 


At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 

would  hate 
(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify 

it. 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.     More  soluble  is  tliis 

knot. 
By  gentleness  than  war.     I  want  her 

love. 
What    were    I   nieher  this  altho'   we 

dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 
She  would  not  love  ;  — or  brought  her 

chain'd,  a  slave. 
The  lifting  of  whose    eye'ash    is   my 

lord. 
Not  ever  would  she  love  ;  but  brood- 
ing turn 
The  book  of  scorn,   ti'l  all  my  little 

chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 

wrongs. 
And   crush'd   to   death  :    and   rather, 

Sire,  than  this 
I   would  the   old  god  of  war  himse'f 

were  dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 
Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs 

of  wreck. 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd 

in  ice, 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughly  spake 
My  father,   "  Tut,  you  know  them  not, 

the  girls. 
Bo}',  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost 

think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.     Look  you, 

Sir  ! 
Man  is  the  hunter ;  woman  is  his  game  : 
The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 

chase, 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their 

skins  ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them 

down. 
Wheedling    and    siding    with    ihem  1 

Out  !    for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there  's  no  rose  that 's  half  so  dear 

to  them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare 

not  do, 
Breathing    and     sounding    beauteous 

battle,  comes 


A    MEDLEY. 


'47 


With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him, 

and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the 

score 
Flatter'd   and   fluster'd,    wins,  though 

dash'd  with  death 
He  reddens  what  lie  kisses  :  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good 

wife. 
Worth  winning;  but  this  firebrand  — 

gentleness 
To  such  as  her  I  if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net. 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer. 
Were  wisdom  to  it." 

"  Yea,  but  Sire,"  I  cried, 
"  Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.     The 

soldier?    No: 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 

prize 
The  soldier  ?    I  beheld  her,  when  she 

rose 
The  yesternight,  and  storming  in  ex- 
tremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 

down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd 

the  death. 
No,  not  the  soldier's  :  yet  I  hold  her, 

king, 
True  woman  :  but  you  clash  them  all 

in  one, 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  li'y  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm  :  one  loves  the  sol- 
dier, one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this, 

one  that. 
And  some   unworthily ;    their  sinless 

faith, 
A  maiden   moon   that   sparkles   on   a 

sty. 
Glorifying   clown   and  satyr ;    whence 

they  need 
More  breadth  of  culture  :    is  not   Ida 

right  ? 
They  worth  it  ?  truer  to  the  law  within  ? 
Severer  in  the  lotjic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Oi  earth  and  heaven  ?  and  she  of  whom 

you  speak. 
My  mother,   looks  as  whole  as  some 

serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 


Of  sovereign  artists  ;  not  a  thought,  a 

touch. 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak 

the  white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves ; 

I  say. 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  siips  in  sen- 
sual mire. 
But   whole  and  one  :   and  take  them 

all-in-all. 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as 

kind. 
As  truthfu!,  much  that  Ida  claims  as 

right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 

theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.     To  our  point : 

not  war  : 
Lest  I  lose  all." 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense," 
Said  Gama.     "  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 
In  our  sweet  youth  ;  we  did  not  rate 

him  then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with 

blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida  :  she  can  talk  ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you 

say  : 
But  you  talk  kindlier  :  we  esteem  you 

for  it.  — 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a   gallant 

Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter  :  for  the 

rest. 
Our  own   detention,  why   tlie  causes 

weigh'd. 
Fatherly  fears  —  you  used  us  courte- 
ously— 
We   would   do   much    to  gratify  your 

Prince  — 
We  pardon  it ;   and  for  your  ingress 

here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair 

land, 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the 

night, 
No.-  in  the  furrow  broke  the  plough- 
man's head, 
Noi  bunit  tha  grange,  nor  buss'd  the 

milking-maid, 
Norrobbd  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of 

cream  • 


Mi 


THE   PRINCESS: 


But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word 

upon  it, 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to  our 

lines, 
And  speak  with  Arac  :  Arac's  word  is 

thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida  :  something  may  be 

done  — 
I  know  not  what  —  and  ours  shall  see 

us  friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you 

will, 
Follow  us  :  who  knows  ?  we  four  may 

build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 

Here  he  reach'd 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire, 

who  growl'd 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his 

beard, 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 

Then   rode   we   with    the   old   king 

across  the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings 

of  Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines, 

and  woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the  old  king's  ears,  who  promised 

help,  and  oozed 
All  o'er  with  honey'd  answer  as  we 

rode ; 
And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy 

dews 
Gather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with  each 

light  air 
On     our     mail'd     heads :     but    other 

thoughts  than  Peace 
Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  embat- 
tled squares. 
And  squadrons   of  the  Prince,   tram- 
pling the  flowers 
With  clamor  :   for  among  them  rose  a 

cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king  ;  they  made  a 

halt; 
The  horses  yell'd ;   they  clash'd  their 

arms ;  the  daim 
Beat ;     merrily-blowing     shrill'd     the 

martial  fife ; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long 

horn 


And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner:   anon  to  meet  us  lightly 

pranced 
Three  captains  out ;   nor  ever  had  I 

seen 
Such  thews  of  men  :  the  midmost  and 

the  highest 
Was  Arac  :  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  .shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them, 

made  them  glance 
Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Gi- 
ant's zone. 
That   glitter  burnish'd  by  the    frosty 

dark; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 
And    bickers    into   red   and   emerald, 

shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning, 

as  they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first 

I  heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 

force. 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Stir  in  me  as  to  strike  :  then  took  the 

king 
His   three   broad   sons ;    with    now  a 

wandering  hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them 

all : 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  dis- 
guise 
Broke   from   their  lips,    and,    ere   the 

windy  jest 
Had  labor'd  down   within   his  ample 

lungs, 
The  irenial  giant.  Arac,  roll'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in 

words. 

"  Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath  !  and  he 
him  pelf 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not 
\\?.x : 

And,  'sdeath  !  myself,  what  care  I,  war 
fir  no? 

But  tlien  this  question  of  your  troth 
remains : 

And  there  's  a  downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 

She  flies  ton  high,  she  flies  too  high  I 
and  yet 


A    MEDLEY 


»49 


She  ask'd  but  space  and  fairplay   for 

her  scheme  : 
She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  —  I  my- 

seh", 
What  know  I  of  these  things  ?  but,  hfe 

and  soul ! 
I  thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her 

wrongs ; 
I  say  she  thes  too  high,  "sdeath  !  what 

of  that  ? 
I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind. 
And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong. 
And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 

she  loves, 
And,  ri2:ht  or  wrong,  I  care  not :  this 

is"  all, 
I  stand  upon  her  side  :  she  made  me 

swear  it  — 
'Sdeath,  —  and  with   solemn  rites   by 

candle-light  — 
Swear  by  St.  something — I  forget  her 

name  — 
Her  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest 

men ; 
Sfte  was  a  princess  too  ;  and  so  I  swore. 
Come,  this  is  all ;  she  will  not:  waive 

your  claim, 
If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at 

once 
Decides  it,  'sdeath  I  against  my  father's 

wUl." 

1  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless 

war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper 

yet ; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half 

aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip, 
I'o  prick  us  on  to  combat  "  Like  to 

like  ! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's 

heart." 
A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like 

a  blow  ! 
For   fiery-short   was   Cyril's  counter- 

scotf,  * 

And  sharp  I  answer'd,   touch'd  upon 

the  point 
Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their 

shame, 
"  Decide  it  here  :    w  hy  not  ?   we   are 

three  to  three." 


Then  spake  the  third,  "  But  three  to 

three  .'  no  more  ? 
No   more,   and   in   our  noble   sister's 

cause  ? 
More,  more,  for  honor :  every  captain 

waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that 

each 
May  breathe  himself)  and  quick !   by 

overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled 

die." 

"Yea,"  answer'd  I,    "for  this  wild 

wreath  of  air. 
This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the 

highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds — this  honor,  if 

ye  will. 
It  needs  must  be  tor  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision  ?  if  we  fail,  we  fail. 
And  if  we  win,  we  fail :  she  would  not 

keep 
Her  compact."      '"Sdeath!    but  we 

will  send  to  her." 
Said  Arac,  "  worthy  reasons  why  she 

should 
Bide  by  this  issue :    let  our  missive 

thro'. 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the 

word." 

"  Boys  !"  shriek'd  the  old  king,  but 

vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool ;  for 

none 
Regarded  ;  neither  seem'd  there  more 

to  say : 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and 

found 
He  thrice   had   sent  a   herald  to  the 

gates, 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our 

claim. 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life  :  three  times 

he  went : 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 

api)ear'd : 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors ;  none  came  : 

the  next. 
An  awful  voice  within  had  wani'd  him 

thence  : 


150 


THE    PRINCESS: 


The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters 

of  the  plough 
Came  sallying  thro'    the    gates,   and 

caught  his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made   him  wild :   not  less  one 

glance  he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the 

noise 
Of  arms ;   and  standing  like  a  stately 

Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag. 
When   storm   is   on  the  heights,   and 

right  and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long 

hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale  :  and 

yet  her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was 

pledged 
To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he 

clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry  ; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the 

lads: 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state, 

perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 

demur : 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in 

heat, 
Md  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till 

death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the 

field 
Flat  to  the  garden-wall :  and  likewise 

here, 
Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom- 
belts, 
A  column'd  entry  shone  and  marble 

stairs, 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd  with 

Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight. 
But  now  fast  barr'd :  so  here  upon  the 

flat 
All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  ham- 

mer'd  up, 


And  all  that  mom  the  heralds  to  and 

fro. 
With  message  and  defiance,  went  and 

came ; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand, 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling 

words 
Oration-like.     I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"O   brother,   you  have  knowTi   the 

pangs  we  felt. 
What  heats  of  indignation  when   we 

heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  wo- 
men's feet ; 
Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor 

bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a 

scourge ; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the 

fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots ; 

and  of  those,  — 
Mothers, — that,    all    prophetic    pity, 

fling 
Their   pretty    maids    in    the   running 

flood,  and  swoops 
The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the 

heart 
Made   for  all   noble  motion  :    and   I 

saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker 

times 
With  smoother  men  :   the  old  leaven 

leaven'd  all : 
Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil 

rights. 
No  woman  named  :  therefore  I  set  my 

face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine 

own. 
Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for  them  ; 
I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 
I  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 
And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of 

prey. 
And  prosper'd  ;  till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 
Brake  on  us'  at  our  books,  and  marr'd 

our  peace, 
Mask'd  like  our  maids,   blustering  I 

know  not  what 
Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext 

held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 


A    MEDLEY. 


'<» 


Then  came  a  postscript  dash'd  across 

the  rest. 
"  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your 

camp : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors  —  none  to 

trust 


SeaJ'd  not  the  bond  —  the  striplings  ! 

—  for  their  sport !  — 
I  tamed  my  leopards  :  shall  I  not  tame 

these  ? 
Or  you  ?  or  I  ?  for  since  you  think  me 

touch'd 
In  honor  —  what,  I  would  not  aught  of 

false  — 
Is  not  our  cause  pure?  and  whereas  I 

know 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  moth- 
er's blood 
You  draw  from,  fight ;   you  failing,   I 

abide 
What  end  soever:   fail  you  will  not. 

Still 
Take  not  his  life :  he  risk'd  it  for  my 

own  ; 
His  mother  lives:  yet  whatsoe'er  you 

do, 
Fight  and  fight  well ;  strike  and  strike 

home.     O  dear 
Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards 

you,  you 
The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our     | 

cause. 
The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  af- 
ter-time, I 
Your  very  armor  hallow'd,  and  your 

statues 
Rear'd,   sung  to,    when    this  gad-fly 

brush'd  aside, 
We  plant  a  solid  toot  into  the  Time, 
And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 
With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right, 

till  she 
Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's, 

know  herself; 
And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land  make 

her  free. 
And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 

twins, 
Commerce  and   conquest,  shower  the 

fiery  grain 
Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 
Between  the  Northern  and  the  South- 
em  morn." 


Since  our  arms  fail'd  —  this  Egypt- 
plague  of  men  ! 

Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 
homes. 

Than  thus  man-girdled  here  :  indeed  I 
think 

Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 

Of  one  unworthy  mother  ;  which  she 
left: 

She  shall  not  have  it  back :  the  child 
shall  grow 

To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her 
mind. 

I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  owm  bed 

This  moming  :  there  the  tender  or- 
phan hands 

Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm 
from  thence 

The  wTath  I  nursed  against  the  world  : 
farewell." 

I  ceased  ;  he  said  :  "  Stubborn,  but 

she  may  sit 
Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms, 
And  breed   up  warriors  !     See   now, 

tho'  yourself 
Be   da/zled   by   the   wildfire   Love  to 

sloughs 
That    swallow    common     sense,     the 

spindling  king, 
This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 
When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  wo- 
man takes  it  up. 
And  topples  down  the  scales  ;  but  this 

is  fixt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all  ; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the 

hearth  : 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 

she  : 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with 

the  heart : 
Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obe> 
All   else   confusion.     Look  you 

gray  mare 
Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny 

shrills 
From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small 

goodman 
Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires 

of  Hell 
Mix  with  his  hearth  :  but  you  —  she  's 

yet  a  colt  — 


%i 


IS2 


THE   PRINCESS 


Take,  break  her  :  strongly  groom'd  and 

straitly  curb'd 
She  might  not  rank  with  those  detest- 
able 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home, 

and  brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in 

the  street. 
They  say  she  's  comely  ;   there  's  the 

fairer  chance  : 
/  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at 

her  ! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.     A  lusty 

brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly. 

Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king  : 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon  : 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held. 
And  on  the  little  clause  "  take  not  his 

life  "  : 
I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the 

woods. 
And   on    the     "  Follow,    follow,    thou 

shalt  win  "  : 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 

said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was 

to  end  : 
Then   I  remember'd   that   burnt  sor- 
cerer's curse 
That  one  should  fight  with   shadows 

and  should  fatl  ; 
And  like   a   flash  the   weird   affection 

came  : 
King,  camp  and  college  turn'd  to  hol- 
low shows  ; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To   dream    myself  the    shadow   of   a 

dream  : 
And  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of  noon. 
The   lists  were    ready.     Empanoplied 

and  plumed 
We  enter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  baiTier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a  land 
Of  echoes,   and  a  moment,  and  once 

more 
The  trumpet,  and  again  :  at  which  the 

storm 


Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of 

spears 
And  riders  front  to  front,    until   they 

closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 

points. 
And  thunder.     Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream  ; 

I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.     On   his   haunches    rose 

the  steed, 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance. 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the 

fire. 
A  noble  dream  !  what  was  it  else  I  saw? 
Part  sat   like  rocks  :    part   reel'd  but 

kept  their  seats  : 
Part  roll'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again 

and  drew  : 
Part  stumbled  mixt  with   floundering 

horses.     Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side, 

and  down 
From  Arac's   arm,   as  from  a  giant's 

flail, 
The  large  blows  rain'd,   as  here  and 

everywhere 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing 

lists. 
And  all  the  plain  —  brand,  mace,   and 

shaft,  and  shield  — 
Shock'd,  like   an   iron-clanging    anvil 

bang'd 
With   hammers ;    till    I    thought,    can 

this  be  he 
From   Gama's  dwarfish  loins  ?   if  this 

be  so, 
The  mother  makes  us  most  —  and  in 

my  dream 
I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the   palace- 
front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies' 

eyes, 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue- 

Hke, 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jae!, 
With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching 

us, 
A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 
Like  a  Saint's  glory  up   in   heaven  : 

but  she 
No    saint  —  inexorable  —  no    tender- 
ness— 
Too  hard,  too  cruel :  yet  she  sees  me 

fight,. 


A    M.^VLEY. 


Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall !  with  that  I  drave 
Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 

Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.     Yea,  let  me  make  my 

dream 
All    that    I    would.     But    that    large- 
moulded  man, 
His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake. 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  stag- 
gering back 
With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and 

horseman,  came 
As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud. 
Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the 

drains, 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign 

till  it  strikes 
On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 

cracks,  and  splits. 
And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar 

that  Earth 
Reels,   and    the    herdsmen    cry ;    for 

everything 
Gave  way  before  him  :  only  Florian,  he 
That  loved  me  closer  than   his  own 

right  eye. 
Thrust  in  between  ;  but  Arac  rode  him 

down  : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the 

Prince, 
With  Psyche's  color  round  his  helmet, 

tough. 
Strong,   supple,   sinew-corded,    apt  at 

arms ; 
But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 

smote 
And  threw  him  :  last  I  spurr'd  ;  I  felt 

my  veins 
Stretch  with  fierce    heat  ;   a   moment 

hand  to  hand. 
And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse 

we  hung. 
Till  I   struck  out  and  shouted  ;   the 

blade  glanced  ; 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream 

and  truth 
Flow'd  from  me  ;  darkness  closed  me  ; 

and  1  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  ; 

She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry  : 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

I/ike  summer  temjiest  came  Iicr  tears  — 
"  Sweet  my  cliild,  1  live  for  thee." 


VI. 

ll^Y   dream  had  never  died   or  Hved 

again. 
A  s  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay  : 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard  : 
Tiio',  if  I  saw  not,  yet  they  toid  me  all 
So  oAen  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to 

me. 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and 

more  strange  ; 
That   when  nur  side  was  vanquish'd 

and  my  cause 
Forever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry. 
The  Prince  is  slain.     My  father  heard 

and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my 

casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  afte^- 

him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  m  arm  :  there  on 

tlie  roofs 
Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  sha 
sang. 

"  Our    enemies    have    fall'n,     have 

fall'n  :  the  se^d 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the 

dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown 

a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every 

side 
A  thousand  arms  and  I  uiih^s  to  the  Sun 


154 


"  Our    enemies    have    fall'n 
fall'ii :  they  came  ; 

The   leaves  were    wet   with  women's 
tears  :  they  lieard 

A  noise  of   songs  they  would  not  un- 
derstand : 

They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to 
the  fall, 

And  would  have  strown    it,    and   are 
fall'n  themselves. 

"  Our    enemies    have    fall'n,     have 

fall'n  :  they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes  :   lo  the 

tree  ! 
But   we   will   make   it   fagots  for  the 

hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof 

and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of 

men. 

"  Our    enemies    have    fall'n,     have 
fall'n  :  they  struck  ; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  them- 

-        selves,  nor  knew 
There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain  : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their 

arms. 
Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the  shoul- 
der blade. 

*'  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this 

shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a 

breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power  ; 

and  roll'd 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of 

Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star, 

the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

"  And   now,    O   maids,   behold  our 

sanctuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken  :  fear  we 

not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof, 

whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with 

a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 

feast, 
When    dames    and    heroines    of   the 

golden  year 


THE  PRINCESS: 
have 


Shall  strip  a  hundred  hollows  bare  of 

Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three  i 

but  come. 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are 

won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse 

mankind, 
111  nurses  ;    but  descend,  and   proffer 

these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause, 

that  there 
Lie  bruised   and   maim'd,   the   tender 

ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in 

her  arms, 
Descending;,    burst   the  great    bronze 

valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train   across  the 

Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed, 

on  they  came. 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by 

them  went 
The  enamor'd  air  sighing,  and  on  their 

curls 
From    the  high  tree  the  blossom  wa- 
vering fell, 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of 

light, 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade  :  but 

Blanche 
At  distance  foUow'd  :  so  they   came  : 

anon 
Thro'   open  field  into  the   lists  they 

wound 
Timorously  ;  and  as  the  leader  of  the 

herd 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to   the 

Sun, 
And   follow'd   up  by  a   hundred  airy 

does, 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on  air. 
The    lovely,    lordly    creature    floated 

on 
To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay ; 

there  stay'd ; 
Knelt  on  one  knee,  —  the  child  on  one, 

—  and  prest 
Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  de- 
liverers. 


A    MEDLEY. 


AnA    happy   warriors,    and    immortal 

names, 
And  sai  I,  "  You  shall  not  lie  in  the 

tents  but  here. 
And  nursed  by   those  for  whom  you 

fought,  and  served 
With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,   whether  moved  by   this,    or 

was  it  chance, 
She  past  my  way.     Up   started  from 

my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelp- 
less  eye, 
Silent ;  but  when   she  saw   me   lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly 

pale. 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd  ;  and  when 

she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend 

beard 
Of  grisly  twine,   all  dabbled  with  the 

blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd,  a  twitch  of 

pain 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  fore- 

,  head  past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and 

she  said  : 
"  He  saved  my  life  :  my  brother  slew 

him  for  it." 
No  more  :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter 

scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and 

the  tress, 
And  held  them  up  :  she  saw  them,  and 

a  day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory, 
When  the  good  Queen,   her  mother, 

shore  the  tress 
With   kisses,   ere    the   days   of    Lady 

Blanche  : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my 

pale  face  : 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  ail. 
Her  iron  will  wa-  broken  in  her  mind  ; 
Her  noble    heart  was  molten   in   her 

breast  ; 
She  bowd,  she  set  the  child  on   the 

earth  ;  she  laid 
.\   feeling   finger  on   my  brows,    and 

presently 


he  lives  :  he  is 


"  O  Sire,"  she  said, 

not  dead : 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren 

here 
In  our  own  palace  :  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ;  if  so,  by  any  means, 
To  lighten  tiiis  great  c'.og  of  thanks, 

that  make 
Our  progress   falter  to   the    woman's 

goal." 

She  said  :  but  at   the   happy   word 

"  he  lives," 
My  father  stoop'd,  re-father'd  o'er  my 

wounds. 
So   those    two  foes  above    my  fallen 

life, 
With    brow  to  brow  like   night  and 

evening  mixt 
Their  dark   and  gray,   while   Psyche 

ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 

brede. 
Lay  like  a  new-fall'ii  meteor  on   the 

grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  be- 
gan 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to 

dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent 

arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.     She  the 

appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  out  "  Mine 

—  mine  —  not  yours. 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine  :  give  me  the 

child," 
Ceased  all  on  tremble  :  piteous  was  the 

cry  : 
So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open- 

mouth'd. 
And  tum'd  each  face  her  way:  wan 

was  her  cheek 
With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming  man- 
tle torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her 

eye, 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls, 

and  h.alf 
The  sacred  mother's  bosom,  panting, 

burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe  ;   but  she 

nor  cared 


156 


THE   PRINCESS. 


Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,   till   Ida 

heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 

stot>d 
Erect   and   silent,    striking    with    her 

glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ;    but   he 

that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee  :  then 

he  drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  downi 

she  look'd 
At  the  armd  man  sideways,  pitying,  as 

it  seem"d. 
Or  self-involved  ;  but  when  she  learnt 

his  face. 
Remembering    his     ill-omen'd     song, 

arose 
Once   more  thro'  all  her  height,   and 

o'er  him  grew 
Tall  as  a  tigure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and 

he  said : 

"  O   fair  and  strong    and  terrible ! 

Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Li- 
on's mane  ! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two 

more  terrible 
And  stronger.      See,  your  foot  is  on 

our  necks. 
We  vanquish'd,  vou  the  Victor  of  vour 

will. 
What  would  you  more?  give  her  the 

child  !  remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation  :  he  is  dead, 
Or  all  as  dead :  henceforth  we  let  you 

be  : 
Win  you  \\\t  hearts   of  women  ;   and 

beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common  love 

of  these, 
The  common  hate  with  the  revolving 

wheel 
Should  drag  you  dowii,  and  some  great 

Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darken'd  t'uture,  crown'd 

with  fire. 
And  tread  you  out  forever  :  but  how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own 

arms 


To  hold   your  own,  deny  not  hers  to 

her. 
Give  her  the  child  !     O  if,  I  say,  you 

keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  i* 

you  loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dan- 
dled you. 
Or  own  one  part  of  sense  not  tlint  to 

prayer. 
Give  her  the  child  !  or  if  you  sconi  to 

lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with 

yoin-s. 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one 

fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could        ] 

not  kill. 
Give  me  it ;  /  will  give  it  her." 

He  said : 
At  fii-st  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roll'd 
Dry  tlame,    she   listening;    after  sank 

and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full  on  the  child  ;  she  took  it :  "  Pret- 
ty bud  ! 
Lily  of  the  vale  !  half  open'd  bell  of  the 

woods ! 
Sole  comfort  of-my  dark  hour,  when  a 

world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system 

made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery. 
Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  fare- 

^  well  : 
These   men   are   hard   upon  us  as  of 

old, 
We  two  must  part :  and  yet  how  fain 

was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine, 

to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I 

felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 

breast 
In  the  dead  prime  :  but  may  thy  moth- 
er pro\e 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to 

me  ! 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke, 

I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom  "  —  here  she  kiss'd 

it:  then  — 


A    MEDLEY. 


'57 


•All  good  go  with  ihec  !  Uke  it.  Sir," 

and  so 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed 

hands, 
Who  tum'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as 

she  sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 

thanks ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head 

to  foot. 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close 

enough. 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mum- 
bled it. 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it ;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppli- 

antly: 

"  We  two  were  friends  :  I  go  to  mine 
own  land 
Forever :  find  some  other :  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans : 

yet  sijeak  to  me, 
Say  one  soft  word  aiid  let  me  part  for- 
given." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the 

child. 
Then    Arac.       "Ida  —  'sdeath  !     you 

blame  the  man  ; 
You  wrong  yourselves  —  the  woman  is 

so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.     Come,  a  grace  to 

me  ! 
I  ara  your  warrior ;    I  and  mine  have 

fought 
Your  battle  :  kiss  her ;  take  her  hand, 

she  weeps : 
'Sdeath  !    I  would  sooner  fight  thrice 

o'er  than  see  it." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the 

ground, 
And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his 

chin. 
And  moved  beyond  hi?  custom,  Gama 

said: 

"  I  've  heard  ihat  there  is  iron  in  the 

blood. 
And  I  believe  it     Not  one  word?  not 

one.' 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper? 

not  fi-om  me, 


Not  fi-om  your  mother  now  a  saint  with 

saints. 
She  said  you  had  a  heart  —  I  heard  her 

say  it  — 
'Our  Ida  has  a  heart' — just  ere  she 

died  — 
'  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still,'  and  I  —  I  sought  for 

one  — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority  — 
The  Lady  Blanche  :  much  profit !    Not 

one  word ; 
No  I   tho'  your  father  sues :   see  how 

you  stand 
Stiff  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good 

knights  maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there   Is  no  one  hurt  to 

death. 
For  your  wild  whim  :  and  was  it  then 

for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up. 
Where    we    withdrew    fi-om   summer 

heats  and  sure, 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath 

the  planes. 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her 

tliat  's  gone. 
Ere  you  were  bom  to  vex  us?     Is  it 

kind? 
Speak  to  her  I  say :  is  this  not  she  of 

whom. 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you 

said  to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  fiiend  of  your  own 

age. 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought ; 

now  should  men  see 
Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock  ;  she  you  walk'd 

with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 

in  the  tower, 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth. 
And  ri;;ht  ascension.    Heaven   knows 

what ;  and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word. 
Not  one  to  spare  her :  out  upon  you, 

flint! 
You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any ;  nay. 
You   sliameyour   mother's  judgment 

too.     Not  one  ? 
You  will   not?  well  — no   heart  hav» 

you,  or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 


IS8 


THE   PRINCESS 


Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitter- 
ness." 

So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond 
his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd  of 

her  force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so 

long. 
Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  lan- 
guor W2pt : 
Her  head  a  httle  bent ;   and  on   her 

mouth 
A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded 

moon 
In  a  still  water :  then  brake  out  my  sire 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds. 

"  O  you, 
Woman,    whom    we    thought   woman 

even  now. 
And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend 

our  son. 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it  —  but 

we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  un- 

forgiven. 
And  think   that    you   might   mix   his 

draught  with  death, 
When  your  skies  change  again  :   the 

rougher  hand 
Is  safer :  on  to  the  tents  :  take  up  the 

Prince." 

He  rose,   and   while   each  ear  was 
prick'd  to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  cloud  that  dimm'd 

her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  light  once  more, 

and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 
"  Come  hither, 

0  Psyche,"  she  cried  out,  "embrace 

me,  come, 

Quick  while  I  melt ;  make  reconcile- 
ment sure 

With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind 
an  hour : 

Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander 
so! 

Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children  be- 
ing chid  ! 

/  seem  no  more :  /  want  forgiveness 
too  : 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but 

maids, 


That   have   no   links  with   men.     Ah 

false  but  dear, 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why?  — 

why?  —  Yet  see, 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet 

once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  les«. 

And  now,  O  Sire, 
Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait 

upon  him, 
Like  mine  own  brother.     For  my  debt 

to  him. 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 

know  it ; 
Taunt  me  no  more  :  yourself  and  yours 

shall  have 
Free  adit ;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 

hearth : 
What   use  to  keep  them  here  now? 

grant  my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help ;   speak  to 

the  king : 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  louch 

of  that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drago 

me  down 
From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up 

with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  woman- 
kind, 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd  :  the  king  replied  not :   Cyril 

said : 
"Your    brother,     Lady,  —  Florian, — 

ask  for  him 
Of  your  great  head  —  for  he  is  wounded 

too  — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 

prince." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"  Our  laws  are  broken  :  let  him  enter 

too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mourn- 
ful song. 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     "Ay  so,"  she 

said, 
"  I  stagger  in  the  stream  :   I  cannot 

keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling, 

hour : 


A    MEDLEY. 


^n 


We  breik  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let  it 

be." 
"  Ay  so  ? "   said   Blanche  :   "  Amazed 

am  I  to  hear 
Your  Highness:   but   your   Highness 

breaks  with  ease 
The  law  vour  Highness  did  not  make  : 

't  was  I. 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  man- 
kind, 
And  block'd  them  out ;  but  these  men 

came  to  woo 
Your    Highness  —  verily    I    think    to 

win." 

So  she,  and  tum'd  askance  a  wintry 

eye: 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 
ToU'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling 

tower. 
Rang  ruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and 

scorn. 

"  Fling  our  doors  wide  !  all,  all,  not 

one,  but  all, 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul. 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or 

foe. 
Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let  our  girls 

flit. 
Till  the  storm  die  !  but  had  you  stood 

by  U3, 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from 

his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She  fain  would  sting 

us  too. 
But  shall  not.     Pass,  and  mingle  with 

your  likes. 
We  brook  no   further  insult  but  are 

gone." 
She  tum'd  ;    the  very   nape    of  her 

white  neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation  :  but  the 

Prince 
Her  brothar  came  ;  the  king  her  father 

charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words  :  nor  did 

mine  own 
Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights, 
and  bare 
Straight  to   tlie  doors :    to   them   the 
doors  gave  way 


Groaning,    and  in    the    Vestal    entry 

shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels : 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall, 

and  there 
Rested  :  but  great  the  crush  was,  and 

each  base. 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 

drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers:  at  the  further  end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great 

cats 
Close   by   her,    like   supporters   on   a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear :  but  in  the  cen- 
tre stood 
The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes ; 

amazed 
They  glared    upon    the   women,    and 

aghast 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent, 

save 
When  armor  clash'd  or  jingled,  while 

the  day, 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall, 

and  shot 
A  flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and  steel. 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from  head 

to  head, 
Now  fired  an  angrj'  Pallas  on  the  helm, 
Now  set  a  wrathtul  Dian's  moon  on 

flame, 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 
And   shuddering   fled    from    room   to 

room,  and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 

and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred 

doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound, 

and  due 
]     To  languid  limbs  and  sickness  ;  left  me 

in  it ; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid  ;  and 

all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And  chariot,  many  a  maiden  passing 

home 
Till  happier  times  ;  but  some  were  left 

of  those 


i6o                                            THE   iHDNCESS: 

Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  cut 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  be- 

and in, 

came 

From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside 

Her  former  beauty  treble  ;   and  to  and 

the  walls, 

fro 

Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything 

With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel 

was  changed. 

offices, 

Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act. 

And  in   their  own  clear  element,  they 

moved. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw 

the  sea ; 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven 

And   hatred   of   her  weakness,    blent 

and  take  the  shape, 

with  shame. 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of 

Old  studies  fail'd  ;  seldom  she  spoke  ; 

cape  ; 

but  oft 

But  0  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd 

Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone 

thee  ? 

for  hours 

Ask  me  no  more. 

On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should 

men 
Darkening  her  female  field  :  void  was 

I  give  ? 

her  use  ; 

I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 

And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to 

Yet,  0  my  friend,  I  will  not  have 

gaze 

thee  die ! 

O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee 

black  cloud 

live; 

Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of 

Ask  me  no  more. 

night. 

Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine 

shore. 

are  seal'd : 

And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from 

I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in 

the  sand, 

vain  : 

And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn 

Let  the  great  river  take  me   to  the 

by  tarn 

main  : 

Expunge  the  world  :  so  fared  she  gaz^ 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch   I 

ing  there  ; 

yield ; 

So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret. 

Ask  me  no  more. 

blank 

And   waste   it   seem'd  and   vain  ;   till 

down  she  came, 

And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 

VII. 

the  sick. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated. 

And  twilight  dawn'd  ;  and  morn  by 

So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital ; 

morn  the  lark  _ 

At  first  witli  all  confusion  :  by  and  by 

Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres, 

Sweet   order   lived   again   with    other 

but  I 

laws  : 

Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 

A  kindlier  influence  reign'd  ;  and  ev- 

And  twilight   gloom'd ;    and  broader- 

erywhere 

grown  the  bowers 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 

Hung   round   tlie   sick  :   the   maidens 

and  Heaven, 

came,  tliey  talk'd, 

Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell  ;  but  I, 

They  sang,  they  read  :  till  she  not  fair, 

Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could 

began 

reach  me,  lay 

A    MEDLEY. 


i6i 


Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Uni-  I     Seen  but  of  Psyche  :  on  her  foot  she 

verse,  hung 

Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the  A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which 

hand  her  lace 

That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in  |     A  little  llush'd,  and  she  past  on  ;  but 


their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian  ;  with  her 

oft 
Melissa  came  ;  for  Blanche  had  gone, 

but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 

keep 
Court-favur  :   here  and  there  the  small 

bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing,  glanced  about  the 

couch, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded 

man 
With  blush  and  smile,  a  medicine  in 

themselves 
To  wile    the   length   from  languorous 

hours,  and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain  ;  nor   seem'd   it 

strange  that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  char- 
ities 
Join'd  at  her  side  ;  nor  stranger  seem'd 

that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  in 

love, 
Than  when  two  dew-drops  on  the  petal 

shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble 

deeper  down. 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit 
obtain'd 

At  first  with  Psyche.  Not  though 
Blanche  had  sworn 

That  after  that  dark  night  among  the 
fields. 

She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own 
good  name  ; 

Not  tho'  he  built  upon  the  babe  re- 
stored ; 

Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she, 
but  fear'd 

To  incense  the  Head  once  more  ;  till 
on  a  day 

When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  be- 
hind 


each 
Assumed  from   thence   a  half-consent 

involved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were 

at  peace. 

Nor  only  these  :   Love  in  the  sacred 

halls 
Held  camival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid 

and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my 

claim. 
Nor  did   mine   own   now  reconciled ; 

nor  yet 
Did  those   twin  brothers,  risen  again 

and  whole  ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she 

sat : 
Then  came  a  change  ;  for  sometimes  I 

would  catch 
Her  hand   in  wild   delirium,  gripe  it 

hard. 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"You   aie   not   Ida";   clasp   it  once 

again. 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not, 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony. 
And   call    her    hard    and   cold   which 

seem'd  a  truth  : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose 

my  mind. 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should 

die: 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care,  ^ 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 

noons. 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark, 

wh  »n  clocks 
Throbb'd    thunder  thro'    the    palace 

floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying   I'ime  from  all   their  silver 

tongues  — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier 

d.iys. 
And  sidelong  glances   at   my   father's 

grief, 


l62 


THE  PRINCESS: 


And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken 

love, 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd 

dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 

cheek  — 
From  all    a  closer   interest  flourish'd 

up. 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last, 

to  these, 
Love,    like   an   Alpine   harebell  hung 

with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier;  frail  at 

first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself. 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close 

to  death 
For  weakness  :  it  was  evening  :  silent 

light 
Slept  on  the   painted   walls,    wherein 

were  wrought 
Two  grand  designs ;  for  on  one   side 

arose 
The   women   up   in   wild   revolt,    and 

storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.     Titanic  shapes, 

they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the 

rest 
A   dwarflike    Cato   cower'd.     On    the 

other  side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax  ;  be- 
hind, 
A  train  of  dames  :  by  axe  and  eagle 

sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Ro- 
man scowls. 
And   half  the   wolfs-milk   curdled   in 

their  veins. 
The  fierce  triumvirs  ;   and  before  them 

paused 
Hortensia,    pleading :    angry  was   her 

face. 

I  saw  the  forms  :  I  knew  not  where 

I  was  : 
They  did  but  seem  as  hollow  shows  ; 

nor  more 
Sweet  Ida  :  palm  to  palm  she  sat  :  the 

dew 


Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her 

shape 
And   rounder   show'd  :    I    moved :    I 

sigh'd  :  a  touch 
Came  round  my  wribt,  and  tears  upon 

my  hand  : 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mme  down  my  face,  and  with  what 

life  1  had. 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  un- 
fold, 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the 

sun. 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on 

her 
Fixt  my  faint   eyes,  and  utter'd  whis- 

peringly :  ^ 

"  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some 

sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself: 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  1  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing  :  only,  if  a  dream, 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.     I  shall  die 

to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I 

die." 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 

trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his 

friends. 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make 

one  sign. 
But  lies  and  dreads  his  docm.     She 

turn'd  ;  she  paused  ; 
She  stoop'd  ;  and  out  of  languor  leapt 

a  cry  ; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brirks  of 

death  ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips  ; 
I'ill  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms 

she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame  ;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe. 
And   left   her  woman,  lovelier  in  her 

mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when 

she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with 

love  ; 
And  dow  n  the  streaming  crystal  dropt  i 

and  she 


'  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  ithe  shepherd  sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills?" 


A    MEDLEY. 


163 


Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 
Naked,  a  double  li^bt  i'l  sir  and  wave, 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd 

her  out 
For  worship  without  end  ;  nor  end  of 

mine, 
Stateliest,   for    thee  !    but    mute    she 

glided  forth, 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank 

and  slept, 
Fill'd  thro'   and  thro'   with   Love,   a 

happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke  :  she,  near 

me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land  : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she 

read. 

"  Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now 

the  white  ; 
Nor  waves  the  CN^press  in  the  palace 

walk  : 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry 

font : 
The  firefly  wakens  :  waken  thou  with 

me. 

"  Now  droops  the   milkwhite   pea- 
cock like  a  ghost. 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to 
me. 

"  Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to 
the  stars. 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on, 
and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts   in 
me. 

"  Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness 
up. 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,   and 

slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 

I   heard   her  turn    the    page  ;    she 
found  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she 
read  : 

"  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder 
mountain  height : 


What   pleasure   lives    in    height   (the 

shepherd  sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the 

hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heav- 
ens, and  cease 
To  glide   a   sunbeam  by  the   blasted 

Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire  ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley, 

come. 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou 

down 
And  find  him  ;   by  the  happy  thresh- 
old, he. 
Or  hand  in  hand   with  Plenty  in  the 

maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 
Or  foxlike   in  the  vine ;   nor  cares  to 

walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Sil- 
ver Horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white 

ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of 

ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven 

falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors : 
But  follow ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee 

down 
To   find    him   in   the  valley ;    let   the 

wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and 

leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope, 

and  spill 
Their   thousand   wreaths   of  dangling 

water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in 

air : 
So  waste  not  thou  ;  but  come  ;  for  all 

the  vales 
Await  thee  :  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee  :  the  chi  dren  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every 

sound. 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is 

sweet  ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the 

lawn. 
The    moan    of  dories   in   immemorial 

elms. 
And  murmuring  of  innumen»hl«>  b«e*^  " 


.64 


THE   PRINCESS. 


So  she  low-toned  ;   while  with  shut 

eyes  I  lay 
Listening  ;  then  look'd.     Pale  was  the 

perfect  face  ; 
The  bosom  with  long   sighs   labor'd  ; 

and  meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  lu- 
minous eyes, 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 

She  said 
Broken])',  that  she  knew  it,she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry  ;  but  she  still  were 

loath, 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to 

one, 
That  wholly  scom'd  to  help  their  equal 

rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,   and  barba- 
rous laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause 

from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,   sought  far  less   for 

truth  than  power 
In  knowledge  :  something  wild  within 

her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her 

down. 
And  she   had  nursed  me  there  from 

week  to  week : 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.     In 

part 
It  was  ill-counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts  :  yet  was  she  but  a 

girl  — 
"Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen 

of  farce  ! 
When  comes  another  such?   never,  I 

think 
Till  the  Sun  drop  dead  from  the  signs." 
Her  voice 
Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon 

her  hands. 
And  her  cjreat  heart  thro'  all  the  fault- 

fufPa-st 
Went  soiTowing  in.a  pause  I  dared  not 

break  ; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird, 
Tiiat  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light : 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume 

fell. 


"  Blame  not  thyself  too   much,"  I 

said,  "nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barba- 
rous laws  ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world 

till  now. 
Henceforth   thou  hast   a   helper,  me, 

that  know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's  :  they  rise 

or  sink 
Together,  dwarf 'd  or  godlike,  bond  or 

free : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with 

man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,   shares 

with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him 

to  one  goal. 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 

hands  — 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miser- 
able, 
How  shall   men  grow?   but   work  no 

more  alone  ! 
Our  place  is  much  :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding 

her  — 
Wii'i  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her 

down  — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of 

all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her 

OV.Tl 

To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and 
"   be 

All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 

For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 

But  diverse  :  could  we  make  her  as  the 
man, 

Sweet  love  were  slain  :  his  dearest  bond 
is  this. 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they 
grov,' ; 

The  man  be  more  of. woman,  she  of 
man  ; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral 
height. 

Nor  lose  the  v.-restling  thews  that  throw 
the  world  ; 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child- 
ward  care, 


A    MEDLEY. 


.65 


Nor  lose  the  cliildlike   in  the   larger 

mind  ; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 

Time, 
Sit   side   by  side,   full-summ'd   in  all 

their  powers. 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Sell-reverent    each    and    reverencing 

each, 
Distinct  in  individualities. 
But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who 

love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to 

men  : 
Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals, 

chaste  and  cahn  : 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  hu- 
mankind. 
May  these  things  be  !  " 

Sighing  she  spoke,  "  I  fear 
They  will  not." 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watch- 
word rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal  :  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in 

thought, 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they 

grow. 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
1'he  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one 

full  stroke. 
Life." 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke  :  "  A 
dream 
That   once   was  mine !    what   woman 

taught  you  this?" 

"  Alone,"  I  said,  "  from  earlier  than 

I  know. 
Immersed   in  rich   foreshadowings   of 

the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not, 

lives 
A  drowning   life,  besotted    in    sweet 

self. 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 

death. 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd   affections  dipt 

with  crime  : 


Yet  was  there  one  thro*  whom  I  loved 
her,  »)ne 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  house- 
hold ways. 

Not  perfect,  nay,  but   full   of  tender 
wants. 

No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 

In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 

Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men. 

Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and 
yet 

On   tiptoe   seem'd    to   touch   upon   a 
sjihere 

Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds 
perforce 

Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they 
moved, 

And  girdled  her  with  music.    Happy  he 

With  such  a  mother  1  faith  in  woman- 
kind 

Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all 
things  high 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip 
and  fall 

He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clav." 
"But  I," 

Said   Ida,    tremulously,    "so    all   un- 
like— 

It   seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself 
with  words  : 

This  mother  is  your  model.      I  have 
heard 

Of  your    strange  doubts :    they  well 
might  be  :  I  seem 

A  mockery  to  my  own  self.     Never, 
Prince  ; 

You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee,"  I  said, 

"  From  yearlong   poring   on  thy  pic- 
tured eyes. 

Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 
and  saw 

Thee  woman   thro'   the  crust  of  iron 
moods 

That  mask'd  thee   from  men's  rever- 
ence up,  and  forced 

Sweet   love  on   pranks  of  saucy  boy- 
hood :  now, 

Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  tl.ro' 
thee. 

Indeed  I  love  :  the  new  day  comes,  the 
light 

Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for 
faults 


i66                                              THE   PRINCESS: 

Lived  over  :  lift  thine  eyes  ;  my  doubts 

Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter'd  scheme 

are  dead, 

of  seven 

My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows : 

Together  in   one  sheaf?     What  style         j 

the  change, 

could  suit  ?                                 _             j 

This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd 

The  men  required  that  I  should  give         i 

it.     Dear, 

throughout                                               1 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on 

The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque,           j 

mine, 

With   which  we  banter'd  little   Lilia         | 

Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- 

first  :                                                         j 

world  ; 

The  women  —  and   perhaps  they  felt 

Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon 

their  power,                                             \ 

my  brows ; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 

For  something   in   the  ballads  which         ; 

they  sang,                                                   j 

Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour, 

Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat,         I 

and  this 

Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  bur-         ■ 

Is  mom  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to- 

lesque. 

come 

And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn 

Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland 

close  — 

reels 

They  hated  banter,  wish'd   for  some- 

'      Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 

thing  real, 

i                   Forgive  me. 

A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess  —  why         j 

i       I   waste   my  heart  in   signs:   let  be. 

Not  make  her  true-heroic  —  true-sub- 

My bride. 

lime? 

My  wife,  my  life.     O  we  will  walk  this 
\\orld. 

Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close  ? 

Which    yet   with    such  a    framework 

Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 

scarce  could  be. 

And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across 

Then  ro.->e  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two, 

the  wild 

Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists  : 

That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please 

thee :  come. 

them  both. 

Yield  thyself  up  :  my  hopes  and  thine 

And  yet  to  give  the  stoiy  as  it  rose, 

are  one  : 

I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal. 

Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thy- 
self; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust 

And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor 
them. 

to  me." 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took 

no  part 

In  our  dispute  :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 

Had  touch'd   her;    and  she   sat,   sh« 

CONCLUSION. 

pluck'd  the  grass. 

She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking :  last. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you 

she  fixt 

all 

A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and 

The   random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it 

said. 

rose: 

"You  —  tell   us  what  we   are"    who 

The  words  are  mostly  mine  ;  for  when 

might  have  told, 

we  ceased 

For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out 

There  came   a    minute's   pause,   and 

of  books. 

Walter  said. 

But  that  there  rose  a  shout ;  the  gates 

"I  wish  she  had  not  yielded!"  then 

were  closed 

to  me, 

At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarm- 

j      "  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  !  " 

ing  now. 

So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women  :  I  gave 

To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden 

assent : 

rails. 

._     ,. ., 

A    MEDLEY. 


.67 


So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these  :  we 

climb'd 
The  slope  to  ViWan-place,  and  turning 

saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and 

Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land 

of  peace ; 
Gray  halls  alone   among  the  massive 

groves ; 
Trim  hamlets ;  here  and  there  a  rustic 

tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths 

of  wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream  ; 

the  seas ; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white  ;  and  far  beyond. 
Imagined  more  than  seen,   the  skirts 

of  France. 

"  Look  there,  a  garden  !  "   said  my 

college  friend, 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son,   "and 

there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 

her  off. 
And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within 

herself, 
A    nation    yet,    the    rulers    and    the 

ruled  — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a 

faith. 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves 

have  made. 
Some   patient   force   to  change   them 

when  we  will. 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the 

crowd  — 
But  yonder,  whiff !  there  comes  a  sud- 
den heat. 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his 

head, 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not 

fight. 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the 

world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own ; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  school-boys'  barring 

out ; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they 

are. 


Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  ia 
them. 

Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a 
dream 

As  some  of  theirs  —  God  bless  the  nar- 
row seas  ! 

I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic 
broad." 

"Have  patience,"  I  replied,  "our- 
selves are  full 
Of  social  wrong ;   and  maybe  wildest 

dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the 

truth  : 
For  me,   the   genial   day,   the   happy 

crowd. 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a 

faith. 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a  child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.     Patience !     Give 

it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs :  there  is  a  hand  that 

guides." 

In  such  discourse  we  gain'd  the  gar- 
den rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he 

stood. 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks. 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and 

Took'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  Eng- 
lishman, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pami->hleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A    quarter-sessions    chairman,     abler 

none  ; 
Fair-hair'd  and  redder  than  a  windy 

mom  ; 
Now  shaking   hands  with   him,   now 

him,  of  those 
That  stood  the  nearest  —  nowaddress'd 

to  speech  — 
Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 

as  closed 
Welcome,   farewell,   and  welcome  for 

the  year 
To   follow :   a  shout  rose   again,  and 

made 
The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rook- 
ery swerve 


i68 


THE  PRINCESS:  A   MEDLEY. 


From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches 

of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  ferns, 

and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset ;  O,  a  shout 
More  joyful   than   the   city-roar   that 

hails 
Premier  or  king  !     Why  should  not 

these  great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times 

a  year 
To  let  the  people  breathe?     So  thrice 

they  cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd 

away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and 
darkness 


So 


sat  on, 
much     the     gathering 
charm'd :  we  sat 


But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  rev- 
erie. 

Perchance  upon  the  future  man  :  the 
walls 

Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and 
owls  whoop'd. 

And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night, 

That  range  above  the  region  of  the 
wind. 

Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke 
them  up 

Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds, 

Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of 
Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly. 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir 

Ralph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  well- 
pleased  we  went. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy 

face. 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Uelieving  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou   madest  Death  ;    and  lo,   thy 
foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,   he  knows  not 

why ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him  :  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how  ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day  ; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee. 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know  ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before. 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear  ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me  ; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  be- 
gan ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 


Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries. 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 
Forgive  them  where  theyfail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 
1849- 


IN    MEMORIAM 
.\.   H.   H. 

OBIIT    MDCCCXXXIII. 

I. 

I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones. 
That   men    may   rise    on   stepping- 
stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years. 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  ISr-off  interest  of  tears? 

Let   Love   clasp    Grief   lest  both  be 

drown'd. 

Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss  : 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss. 

To   dance    with    death,    to   beat   the 

ground. 
Than   that   the    victor   Hours  should 
scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"  Beiiold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost 
But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead. 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones 


IJO 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock  ; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale. 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom  : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree. 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 


O  SORROW,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath, 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip? 

'"The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "blindly 
run ; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 

"And     all     the     phantom,     Nature, 
stands,  — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind. 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good  ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind? 


To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say  : 

O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now. 
That   thou   shouldst    fail    from   thy 

desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low?" 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou   deep  vase   of  chilling 
tears. 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 


Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes ; 
With  morning  wakes   the  will,  and 
cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


I  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like   coarsest    clothes    against    thn 

cold ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  en- 
fold 
Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

VI. 

One  writes,  that   "  Other  friends  xe« 
main," 
That    "  Loss    is    common    to    the 

race,"  — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 
And  vacant  chaff"  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done. 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 
Thy    sailor,  —  while     thy    head    is 

bow'd. 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something 
thought ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


tji 


Expecting  still  his  advent  home  : 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,'  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

f'or  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "  This  will  please  him 
best," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose ; 

For  lie  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color 
bums; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  rigiit ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the 
ford. 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end? 
And  what  to  me  remains  of  good? 
^o  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

VII.        X. 
Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I 
stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to 
beat 
So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more,  — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep. 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIII. 

A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway 
bell. 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home ; 


He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 
Dies  off  at  once  from    bower   and 

hall. 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet. 
The   field,    the    chamber,    and  the 
street. 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which    once    she    foster'd    up    with 
care ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 
I         O  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 
Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 
I  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb. 
That  if  It  can  it  there  may  bloom. 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him 
o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Piiosnhnr,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 
Sleep,   gentle   heavens,    before   the 

prow ; 
Sleep,   gentle   winds,  as   he   sleeps 
now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  tfi  the  son, 
I     More  tlian  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


172 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night ; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  tVomforeign  lands; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him  :  we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  :  O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod. 

That  takes  thesunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should    gulf    him    fathom-deep    in 

brine  ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


Calm  is  the  mom  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the 

furze. 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That   sweeps  with   all    its    autumn 

bowers. 
And   crowded   farms   and  lessening 
towers, 
To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air. 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep. 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in 

rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 
Whicli  heaves  but  with  the  heaving 
deep. 


Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings ; 

Like  her  I  go  ;  I  cannot  stay  ; 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind. 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large. 
And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge. 

And   saying,    "  Comes    he    thus,    my 
friend? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ?  " 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air : 

"Is  this  the  end?     Is  this  the  end?" 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn. 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 


Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and 
feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these  ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 
A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed  ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest 
and  clos'd. 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice, 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed. 
The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things 
seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing. 

And  glance  about  the   approaching 

sails, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants' 
bales. 
And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


JX  MEMORIAM. 


»73 


If  one  should  bring  nie  this  report, 
Thaf  thou  bads.:  touch'd  the  land  to- 
day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe. 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come    stepping    lightly    do\\^l    the 
plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know ;' 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half-divine  ; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine. 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 
And  how  my  life  had  droop'd  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain  ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame. 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day  : 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away. 

The  rooks  are  b!ov\Tv  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea  ; 
And  wildly  liash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  tiiy  motions  gently  pass 
Atiiwart  a  jilane  of  molten  glaiis, 

I   scarce   could  brook  the  strain  and 
stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud  ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  ni>t  so, 
Tlie  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dole  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher. 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast, 
And  top])les  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 


XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from 
me? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast. 

Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The   toucli    of   change   in   calm  or 

storm  ; 
But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 
Hung  in  the  sliadow  of  a  heaven? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink? 
And  stunn'd  me  from  my  power  to 
think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new. 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan  ? 


I     Thou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a 
I  breeze 

j         Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
!         Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 
To  breathe  t'lee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 
Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week  :  the  days  go  by  : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,    wherever    thou    may'st 
roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light. 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night. 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 
Mid-ocean  spare  ihee,  sacred  bark  ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  tiie  stars. 

So  kind  an  oflSce  hith  been  done, 
Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
Tlie  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


«74 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XVIII. 

'T  IS  well ;   't  is  something  ;   we  may 
stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
i^d  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'T  is  little  ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the 
head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of 

sleep. 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 
And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart. 
Would   breathing   through   his   lips 
impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me  ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  tlie  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find. 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 


The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The   darken'd    heart    that   beat  no 

more  ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore. 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills  ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by. 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all. 
When  fiU'd  with  tears   that  cannot 
fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said. 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Arj  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is. 
And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind : 
"It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "  to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
Tliat  out  of  words  a  comfort  win ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze  : 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath. 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none. 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"  How  good  !    how  kind !    and  he  is 
gone." 


I  SING  to  him  that  rests  below, 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave. 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then. 
And     sometimes     harshly    will    he 

speak : 
"  This  fellow  would  make  weakness 
weak. 
And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "  Let  him  be. 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain. 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth,  "  Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When   more   and  more   the  people 
throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power? 

"  A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon. 
When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To   feel  from  world  to   world,  and 
charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon?" 


IN  MEMORIAL. 


175 


Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 

And  pipe  but  as  tlie  linnets  sing : 

And  one  is  glad  :  her  note  is  gay. 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  ; 
And  one  is  sad  ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 

xxir. 
The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us 

well. 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell. 
From  flower  to  flower,   from  snow  to 
snow: 

And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way. 
And  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent. 
From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope. 
As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold. 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  duU'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  1  walk  in  haste, 
And  think  that   somewhere   in  the 
waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 


XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits. 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 

The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot. 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame. 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

And    cr],'ing.     "  How    changed    from 
where  it  ran 
Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was 

dumb  ; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 


"  When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each. 

And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught. 

And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with 

Thought 

Ere   Thought   could  wed   itself   with 

Speech  ; 

"  And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could 

bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood; 

"  And  many  an  old  philosophy 
On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 


And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes    former    gladness    loom    so 

great  ? 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  fir ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein? 


I  KNOW  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air ; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 

Because  it  needed  help  of  love  : 

Nor  could  I  wear>',  heart  or  limb. 
When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in 

twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain. 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 


X76 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way ; 
I  with  it ;  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder'd  tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built,  — 

O,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more. 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be. 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  mom 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas, 
That  Sliadow  waiting  with  the  keys. 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 


'      XXVII. 

I  ENVY  not  in  any  moods 
The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  : 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime. 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of 
Christ : 

The  moon  is  hid  ;  the  night  is  still  ; 

The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From   far  and   near,    on  mead  and 

moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 


Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind. 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease. 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and 
peace. 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again  : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 
For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace. 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve  ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight, 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and 
Wont 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house  ; 

Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly 
due 

Before  their  time  ?    They  too  will  die. 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The     holly    round    the     Christmas 

hearth  ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gamboH'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech: 
We  heard  them  sweeji  the  winter  land; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 


ly  ME  MORI  AM. 


»77 


Then  echo-like  »ur  voices  rang  ; 
We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  :  impetuously  we  sang  : 

We  ceased  :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet : 
"They  rest,"  we  said,  "their  sleep 
is  sweet," 

And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  'wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range  ; 
Once  more  we  sang  :  "  They  do  not 

die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 
Nor    change    to     us,    although    they 
change ; 

"  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gathered  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  tlame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  mom. 
Draw   forth   the   cheerful  day  from 

night : 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 
The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was 
bom. 

XX'XI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  chamel-cave. 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  retum'd, 
Was  this  demanded,  —  if  he  yeam'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

"  Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four 
days?" 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply. 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

F'rom  ever)'  house  the  neighbors  met, 
The   streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful 

sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  jf  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd  ; 

He  told  it  not ;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Hkr  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 


Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  vshen  her  ardent  ga^e 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears. 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  comjilete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's 
feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers. 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 
What   souls  possess   themselves  so 
pure. 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs? 


O  THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 
Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer 

air. 
Whose  faith  has  centre  evcrj-where, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form. 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views  ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
O,  sacred  be  the  tlesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine  1 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within. 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin. 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  tj'pe. 

A  XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  forevermore. 
Else  earth  i-  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  ail  that  is  ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame. 
Fantastic  beauty  ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'Twere  hardly  worth  my  while   to 
choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A  little  patience  ere  I  die  ; 


178 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


'Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like    birds    the    charming    serpent 

draws, 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 


Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should    murmur  from    the    narrow 

house, 
"  The  cheeks    drop  in ;    the    body 
bows ; 
Man  dies  :  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust "  : 

Might  I  not  say,  "  Yet  even  here, 
But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  kefep  so  sweet  a  thing  aHve  "  ? 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or 

slow 
Draw  down  Ionian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be  ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and 
more. 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  me  !  what  profits  it  to  put 
An  idle  case  ?     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods. 
Or  in  his  coarsest  Satx^r-shape 
Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush'd 
the  grape, 

And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods. 


Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin  ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers. 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall 

fail. 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 


And   so   the    Word  had   breath,    and 
wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds. 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which   he  may  read  that  binds   the 
sheaf. 
Or  builds   the   house,   or  digs  the 

grave. 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the 
wave 
In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 


Urania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow  : 
'*  Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art 

least ; 
This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest, 

And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill. 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet. 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek: 
"I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

"  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 

And  render  human  love  his  dues  ; 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  tilings  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

"  I  murmur' d,  as  I  came  along. 
Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  Master's  field, 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 


With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  tl^^  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  Snd  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring. 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing' 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


>79 


If  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sin^  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  ^hine  ear. 


Could  we  forget  the  widowM  hour, 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  herorange-flower! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth 
rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And   hopes  and   light   regrets   that 
come 
Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes  ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  ; 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming,  as  i«  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each  ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  fiill-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern  ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  firesKle 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return. 

And  te'l  them  all  they  would  have  told. 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her 

boast. 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  : 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire. 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 


But    thou    art    tum'd    to    something 
strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  clianges  ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly  !  yet  that  this  could  be,  — 
That  I  could  wing  my  will  with  mi'^iht 
To  leaji  the  grades  of  life  antl  li:.;ht, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee  : 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 
To  that  vague  tear  implied  in  death  ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath. 

The  bowlings  from  forgotten  fields  ; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold. 

A  spectral  doubt  which  ipakes  me 
cold. 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 


I  VEX  my  heart  with  fincies  dim  : 
He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race  ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me  dream  I  rank'dwith  him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still. 
And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps. 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not, 
reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows? 


If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Thro'  all  its  iniervital  cloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on  . 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour. 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
I         And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  ah  (he  color  of  the  ftower : 


i8o 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 
So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began  ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  liere  the  man  is  more  and  more  ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not 
whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May   some    dim    touch    of   earthly 
things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
O  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 


The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 
What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  I  "  : 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 
And   learns   the   use    of    "  I,"   and 

"  me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see. 

And  other  than  the  tilings  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 
From   wlience    clear    memory  may 

begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath. 
Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


We  ranging  down  this  lower  track. 
The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  ant' 

flower. 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  Hfe  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it :  there  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall 
bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past : 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd  ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase  ; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace. 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

O  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far ; 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 


Th.\t  each,   who    seems    a  separate 
whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing 

all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 
Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast. 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

"  Farewell !       We    lose   ourselves   in 
light." 

XLVII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  pro- 
posed. 
Then  these  were  such  as  men  might 
scorn  : 


IX  MEMORIAM. 


iSi 


Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove  ; 

She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  re- 
mit, 

What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit. 
And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  : 

And  hence,   indeed,   she  sports  with 
words. 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 
But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-rtights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLVIII. 

From     art,    from    nature,    from    the 
schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance. 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp. 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe. 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall 
breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 

make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break. 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears. 
Ay  me  !  the  sorrow  deepens  down. 
Whose     muffled     motions     blindly 
drown 

f  he  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


XLIX. 
Qe  near  me  when  my  light  is  low. 
When    the   blood   creeps,    and    the 

nerves  prick 
And  tingle  ;  and  the  heart  is  sick. 
And  all  thie  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

efe  near  me  when  the  sen?uous  frame 
Is  rack'd  with   pangs   that  conquer 

tru.st ; 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattermg  dust. 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 


Be  near  me  when  my  faith  i^  dry. 
And  men  the  tiies  of  latter  s^tring. 
That   lay  their  eggs,  and  sung  and 
sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away. 

To  point  the  term  of  hum.in  strit'e. 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  lilc 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


j     Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  u^  at  our  side? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  ? 
No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
1  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame. 
See    with    clear    eye    some    hidden 
shame, 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love? 

I  wTong  the  grave  witli  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  torwant  ot  fciith? 
There  must  be  wi:>dom  with  great 
Death  : 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro*  and  thro*. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  £ill : 
Ye  watch,  like  Ciod,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


I  CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought. 
For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved  : 
My  words  are  only  words,  an<l  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  Iroth  of  thoughi. 

"  Vet   blame   not    thou   thy   plaintive 
song." 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied ; 
"  Ihou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy 
side. 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  inTong. 

"What  keens  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  i'Je.al  wiuth  he  Icir^' 
What  record?  not  the  siiiiis--  y-.irs 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue ; 

"  So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl. 
That  life  is  dash'd  with  fleck*  of  sin 
Abide  :  thy  wealth  is  gather'd  in. 

When  Time  hath  suudcr'd  slicll  from 
pearl." 


A82 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  tboUsh  noise. 

Who    wears    his    manhood   liale    and 
green : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That  had  the  wild-oat  not  been  sown. 
The   soil,    left    barren,    scarce   had 
grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live  ? 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good :  define  it  well : 
For  fear  divine  Philosophy 
Should  pu.<h  beyontl  her  mark,  and  be 

Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 


■"  s^'      O  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  tinal  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  biood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd. 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete ; 

That  not  a  wonn  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off — at  last,  to  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream  :   but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : . 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 


Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife. 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems. 

So  careless  of  the  single  life  ; 

That  I,  considering  everjnvhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  oi  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod,' 
And  falling  with  my  %\  eight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I    stretch    lame   hands    of   faith,   and 
grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


"  So  careful  of  the  tN'pe?"  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliftand  quarried  stone 
She  cries,    "A  thousand   types  are 
gone  : 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death  : 
I'he  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes. 
Who  roU'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed. 
And  love  Creation's  final  law,  — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With     ravin,      shriek'd     against     his 
creed,  — 

Who  loved,  who  siiffer'd  countless  ills. 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust. 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more?  A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.  Dragons  of  the  prime, 
1  hat  tare  each  odier  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail  ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless  ! 

What  ho]ie  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


IX  ME  MORI  AM. 


183 


LVl. 

Peace  ;  come  away  :  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  'iariVJy  sonc; : 
Peace ;     come   awjiy :    we   do   him 
wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly  :  let  us  go. 

Come ;    let  us  go :    your  cheeks   are 
pale ; 
Rut  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Melhinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined  : 

But  I  shall  pass ;  my  work  will  fail. 

Vet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it.  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead  ; 
And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

"Adieu,  adieu,"  forevermore. 


In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  tails 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half  conscious  of  their  dying  clay. 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall 
cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer'd :   "  Where- 
fore grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fniitless  tear? 

Abide  a  little  longer  here, 
And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  withjne, 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life  ; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be  ; 

O  Sorr?lw,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside. 

If  ihou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

Mv  centred  passion  caimot  move. 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day  ; 
But  I  'li  have  leave  at  times  to  play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love  ; 


And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
With  so  much  hojje  lor  years  to  come. 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 

LIX. 

He  past ;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone  : 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet. 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  Ivart  is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere. 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot. 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 
She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days. 
Moving  about  the  houseiiold  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  bom. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go. 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by : 
At  night  sheweeps,  "How  vain  am  II 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low?  " 


If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 
Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise. 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time  ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character'd  and  sli.ght. 
How  dwarf'd  a  growth  of  cold  and 
night. 
How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I 
grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore. 
Where  thy  first   form  was   made  a 

man  ; 
I  loved  thee.  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul   of   Shakespeare    love   thee 


Tho'  if  an  eye  that 's  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench 

or  fail. 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  v.ith  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind  ; 


l84 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 


Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven, 
And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  liang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these. 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy. 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound. 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

Lxni. 
Dost  thou  look  back   on  what  hath 
been. 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man. 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And    grasps    the     skirts    of   happy 

chance. 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circum- 
stance. 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known. 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mif:hty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher. 
Becomes     on     Fortune's    crowning 

slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope. 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream. 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dcamess  in  tiie  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
Whi'e  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  pHy'd  at  couns-^llors  and  kings. 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 


Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands. 
Or  in  the  fuiTOw  musing  stands  : 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? " 

LXIV. 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt ; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "  Love  's  too  precious  to  be 
lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  jihases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing  : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  m  me, 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  fmd  me  gay  among  the  gay, 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost, 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind. 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land, 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand; 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  hi> 
chair 

For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky  ; 

His  inner  day  can  never  die, 
His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 


When  on  my  bed  the  moonligfit  falls 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest. 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 


IN  M£JfOIi/A.V. 


The  mystic  glory  swims  a\vay  ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  ; 

And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  dra\^n 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  davvu. 


When  in  tke  down  I  sink  my  head, 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,    times 

my  breath ; 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows 
not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead  :  ♦ 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn. 
When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with 

dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Reveillee  to  the  breaking  mom. 

But  what  is  this?     I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye. 
Which  makes  me  sad,   I  know  not 
why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 

That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 


I  dream'd  there  would  be  Sprii.g  no 
more. 
That   Nature's  ancient  power  was 

lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke 
and  frost, 
They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door  : 

I  wander'd  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs: 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown  : 

I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 
From   youth   and    babe   and   hoary 

hairs : 
They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns  : 


They  call'd  me  fool,   they  call'd  me 
child: 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 
The   voice  was  low,   the   look  was 
bright  ; 
He  look'd  upon  mycrowm  and  smiled  : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand. 
That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief ; 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand- 


I  CANNOT  see  the  features  right. 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know  ;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers     by     ghostly      masons 
wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning 
doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive  ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 
And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores : 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll. 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  lace  and  makes  it  still. 

LXX. 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death    and 
trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Pa:>t 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong. 
Drug  down  the   blindfold   sense  of 
wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole  ; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we   aH.'d 
Of   men    and    minds,    the    dust  of 

change. 
The   days  that  grow  to   son-^vrlnv 
strange. 
In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'a 


i86 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 
The  fortress,  and  the  mountam  ridge. 
The  cataract  Hashing  from  the  bridge, 

^he  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


RiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawTi,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With   blasts   that    blow   the   iwplar 
white. 
And  lash   with   storm   the   streaming 
pane? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom. 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom. 

And  blurr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun  ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the 

rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  might'st  have  heaved  a  windless 
flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering, 

play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 
Along  the  hills,  yet  look'd  the  same, 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now  ; 
Day,  mark'd  as  with  some  hideous 

crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down 
thro'  time. 
And  cancell'd  nature's  best :  but  thou. 

Lift  as  thou  may'st  thy  burthen'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morn- 
ing star, 
And  whirl  the  ungarner'd  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs. 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day  ; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 

And    hide    thy    shame    beneath    the 
ground. 

LXXII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do. 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  liad  need  of  thee. 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  ? 


The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw. 
The   head   hath    miss'd   an   earthly 

wreath  : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass  ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?     It  rests  with  God. 

O  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults, 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Offeree  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

LXXIII. 

As-sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before. 

Comes  out  —  to  some  one  of  his  race  : 

So.  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below. 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see. 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,   knowing  Death  has 
made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


I  LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpress'd 
In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd ; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things. 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  singSj 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert .' 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  ol 
song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green. 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the 

sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


187 


So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame  ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
VVhate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 

LXXV. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end  ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ;  lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  ot"  a  yew ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy 
bowers 

With  fit'ty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain  ; 

And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 
The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers? 


LXXVI. 

VVh.\t  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  anddeeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 
May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box. 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find. 
And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something 
else. 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that?     My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 
To  breathe  myloss  is  more  than  f-ime. 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXVII. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 
The     holly    round    the     Christmas 

hearth  ; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve  : 


The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost. 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  sometiiing  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind. 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace. 

And  dance  and   song  and   hoodman- 
blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress? 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 
O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No,  —  mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same. 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

LXXVIII. 

"  More  than  my  brothersare  to  me," — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 

1  know  tiiee  of  what  force  thou  art 
To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint ; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'  all  his  eddying  coves  ;  the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer'd  vows, 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learn'd, 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  tum'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  -esemble.-)  t'ane. 
But  he  was  rich  wnere  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supj^lied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 

LXXIX. 

If  any  vague  desire  shou'd  rise. 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side, 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 
The  griefmy  loss  in  hitn  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought. 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 


i88 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain  ; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  lie  speaks ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks; 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free  ; 

And,    influence-rich    to   soothe   and 
save, 

Unused  example  from  the  grave 
Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


LXXX. 

J.OULD  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 
"My    love    shall    now    no    further 

range  ; 
There    cannot    come    a    mellower 
change, 
For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 

What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 

This   haunting    whisper  makes   me 

faint, 

"  More  years  had  made  me  love  thee 

more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 
"  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 


I  WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 
For  changes  wrought  on  form  and 

face  ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on. 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks  ; 

And    these    are    but    the    shatter'd 
^alks. 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 
The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart ; 
He  jiut  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

0  sweet  new- year,  delaying  long  ; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong  ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays    thee    from    the   clouded 
noons. 

Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 
Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue. 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood. 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud. 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIII. 

When  I  contemplate  all  alone 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

To  which   thy   crescent    would    have 
grown ; 

1  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 

In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and 
kiss, 
On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine  ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When   thou  shouldst   link   thy   life 
with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Unrle  "  on  my  knee  ; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-ftower, 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire. 
To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them 
mine. 

1  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 
Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  guest, 
Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  ddep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest : 


AV  ME  MORI  AM. 


189 


Wliile  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
'Ihe  lips  ot  nifcii  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  ttie  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  mom  as  fair ; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  bypaths  of  growing  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair  ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe. 
Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the  globe; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee. 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee. 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal. 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  sinning  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content  ? 


This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and 
pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost. 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed. 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead  ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain'd  ; 
And   whether    love    for    him    have 
drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love  ; 

Vour  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast. 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept. 
Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls. 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

G'jd's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 


The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  thert ; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes. 
And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Wiiose   life,    whose    thoughts   were 

little  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth. 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed 
of  him. 

O  fi-Iendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  witji  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  otiier  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul  I 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
Tlie  sense  of  hutnan  will  demands, 

By  whicii  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone. 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine  ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  ex- 
press 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe. 
That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I  met ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  mea 

1  woo  your  love  :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time; 


igo 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  tears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  irom  this : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 
And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow 

brooks. 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  aifection  of  the  tomb. 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 
A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak  : 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore  ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it?     Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall  : 
"  'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this ; 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play. 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-led. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end. 
That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall 

prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours? 
First    love,    first    friendship,    equal 
powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 


Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place. 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring. 
Knowing  the  ijrimrose  yet  is  dear. 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXV. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air. 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tasseli'd  wood. 
And   shadowing    down   the  horned 
flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout   my   frame,    till   Doubt 
and  Death, 

111  brethren  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "  Peace." 

LXXXVI. 

I  PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  1  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The   storm  their   high-built   organs 

make. 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes; 

And   caught   once    more    the   distant 
shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


ig^ 


The  same  crtiv  flats  ai^ain,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same  ;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  : 
I  linger'd  ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and 
boys 
That  crash' d  the  glass  and  beat  the 
floor; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart. 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 
But  send  it  slac'.cly  from  the  string ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring. 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 
Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing 

ear 
We  lent  him.     Who,  but  hung  to 
hear 
The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and 
grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law. 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 
And  over  tho^e  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

AVii.D  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet. 
Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  c]uicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
(>  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  :   fierce  extremes  em- 
ploy 
Thy  spi'rits  in  the  darkening  leaf. 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy : 

And  I  — my  harp  would  prelude  woe  — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings ; 
The  dory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Vi\\\  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


Lxxxvni. 
Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the 
floor 
Of   this    flat   lawn    with    dusk    and 

bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and 
height 
Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down. 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town  : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw  ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports  ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  brawl- 
ing courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat : 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares. 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew. 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew. 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears ! 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
^bout  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
1  o  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn  : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she   brought  the  harp  and 
flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon  : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  In  livelier  moods. 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  Ijanquet  in  the  distant  woods  : 

Whereat  we  glanced  fi-om  theme  to 
theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate. 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state. 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ; 

But  If  I  praised  the  busy  town, 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still. 
For  "ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 


192 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


"And  merge,"  he  said,   "In  form  and 

gloss 

The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 

We  talk'd:   the  stream  beneath  us 

ran, 

The  Avine-flask  lying  couch'd  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 
And  last,  returning  from  afar. 
Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 

LXXXIX. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where    nighest    heaven,    who   first 
could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their 

life. 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 

'T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with 
wine. 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear. 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here. 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine  ; 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away, 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  ; 
The   hard  heir   strides   about   their 
lands. 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 
Not  less  the  yet-loved   sire  would 

make 
Confusion   worse    than    death,    and 
shake 
The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me  : 
Whatever  change    the    years   have 

wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 


When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush ; 

Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 
Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 
Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 

Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers ; 

The  hope  of  unaccompllsh'd  years 
Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When     summer's      hourly-mellowing 
change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet. 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange  ; 

Come  ;  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 
But   where   the   sunbeam   broodeth 

warm. 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form. 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 


If  any  vision  should  reveal 
Thy  likeness,  I  might  county  it  vain, 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain  ; 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  ihe  days  behind, 
I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  roming  year; 
And  tho'  the  montlis,  revolving  near, 

Should    prove    the    phantom-warning 
true. 

They  might  not  seem  tliy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments. 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCII. 

I  SHAi.i-  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  bra';e  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 

Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in 
clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost. 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 


IN  MEMO RI AM. 


193 


O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter ;  hear 
The    wisli   too  strong  for  words   to 

name  ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

XCIII. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head. 
With  what  divine  affections  bold. 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought 
would  hold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  trom  their  y olden  day. 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair. 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest  : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din. 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits. 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates. 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn, 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry  ; 
And  genial  warmth  ;  and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn  ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  bum 
Unwavering :  not  a  cricket  chirr'd  : 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

.\nd  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  tihny  siiapes 
That  haunt   the  dusk,  with  ermine 
capes 

.And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes; 

While  nowwe  sang  old  songsthat  peal'd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd 

at  ease. 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the 
trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 
13 


But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and 

night. 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  1  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart :  I  read 
Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been, 
In   those    fall'n    leaves   which   kept 
their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead  : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The     silent-speaking     words,     and 

strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth  ;  and  strangely  spoke 

I     The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
I         On   doubts   that    drive   the  coward 

back, 
I         And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 
i     Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 
The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the 

past, 
And  ail  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine. 

And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought. 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and 
caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

i^onian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time,   the  shocks  of 

Chance, 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my 
trance 
Was    cancell'd,    stricken     thro'    with 
doubt. 

Vague  words !   but  ah,   how  hard  to 
frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal 'd 
The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch'd 

at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the 
trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 


194 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And,    suck'd    from    out    the    distant 
gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore. 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 
Rock."d  the  full-foliaged    elms,    and 

swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

"The    dawn,    the    dawn,"    and    died 
away ; 
And    East    and    West,    v^ithout    a 

breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and 
death, 
To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn. 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed. 
Who  touch'd  a  jairing  lyre  at  first. 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There   lives    more    faith   in  honest 
doiibt, 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He   fought   his    doubts   and    gather'd 
strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment 

blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
And  laid  them  :  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 
And    Power   was  with   him   in   the 

night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the 
light. 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


xcvi. 

My  love  has  talk'd  with   rocks  and 
trees ; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd  ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life,  — 
I  look'd  on  these,  and  thought   of 

thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on 
eye. 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their    meetings    made     December 
June, 
Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away  ; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart. 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold  :  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss  ; 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is  ; 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  .she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows  ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move. 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand  :  I  love." 


You  leave  us  :  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him  ;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vin* 


IX  ME  MORI  AM. 


>95 


To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.  All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  roll  ins:  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  unmark'd  of  me  : 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna  ;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness.  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,   the  bridal ;    friend  from 

friend 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,   and  sadness 

flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves  ;  nor  more  content. 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd. 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamns,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


RiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  da'vvn,  again. 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds. 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds. 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  iflower  of  men  ; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoU'n  brook  that  bubbles 

fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past. 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead  ; 

Who  murmiirest  in  the  folia^xed  eaves 
A  ."^ong  that  sli'?:hts  the  coming  care. 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves  ; 


Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breatli, 
'i'o  myriids  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be. 
Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls  ; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 

xcix. 

I  CLIMB  the  hill  :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
T  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold  ; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill. 
Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw  ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock  ; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To   left   and    right    thro'    meadowy 
curves. 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock  ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day  ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall 
sway. 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down. 
Unloved,     that    beech    will    gather 
brown, 
This  maple  bum  itself  away  ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of 

seed. 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air . 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 
The   brook  shall  babble   down   tin 

plain. 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star ; 


196 


IX  MEMORIAM. 


Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and 

crake  ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  saiHng  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow,  | 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  gi'ow  j 

Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child  ;  | 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills  1 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades    4l  ■ 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
T!iy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bovv- 
ers. 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day. 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go :  my  feet  are  set 

To   leave    the   pleasant   fields   and 
farms  ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 


On  that  last  night  before  we  went 
From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
T  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Wl\Jch  left  mv  after-morn  content. 


Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall. 
And  maidens  with  me  :  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang ; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to 
me. 
The  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
Forever :  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea  : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go. 

They  wept  and  wail'd,   but  led  the 
way 

To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 
At  anchor  in  the  flood  below ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead. 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the 

banks. 
We  glided  winding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed  ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 
And   roll'd   the    floods    in   grander 

space. 
The  maidens  gather'd  strength  and 
grace 
And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,  wax'd  in  every 
limb  ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  Is  to  be. 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star ; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Regan  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw. 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck : 


Riug  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky.' 


AV  ME  Jf  OK /AM. 


■97 


Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
liewail'd  their  lot ;  1  did  ihem  wrong  : 
"We  served  thee  here,"  they  said, 
"  so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ? " 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  tVom  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us  "  :  they  enter'd  in. 

And  wliile  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud. 
We   steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson 
cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 

cm. 
The   time   draws    near   the   birth   of 
Christ ; 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

Bu*  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


Thi?  holly  by  the  cottage-eave, 

Tc  night,  ungather'd,  shall  it  stand : 
We  live  withm  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows  : 
There   in  due    time   the   woodbine 
blows. 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The    genial    hour    with    mask    and 

mime ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of 
time. 
Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast. 
By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  1  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 


But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 
Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'    which    the    spirit    brcatlies   no 
more .' 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,   nor  tlute  bt 
blown  ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  sunmier  in  the  seed  ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


RiXG  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ruig,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring   out,    ring    out*  my   mournful 
rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  tlie  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shai)es  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  liand  : 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the-land. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


198 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


It  is  the  day  when  he  was  bom, 
A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 

Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.  Fiercely  tlies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and 
clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the   coast.     But  fetch 
the  wine, 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass ; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie. 
To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat ; 
Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 

Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 

We  keep  the  day.     With  festal  cheer. 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate'er  he  be. 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 


I  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind. 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone. 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith. 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height. 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place. 
But  mine    own    phantom   chanting 

hymns? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death   there 
swims 
The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  liuman  skies : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makej  us  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


CVIII. 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 
From  household  fountains  never  dry ; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye. 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk  ; 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and   throw  the  doubts  of 
man  ; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good. 
But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom ; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bioom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt. 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England  ;  not  the  school-boy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face  ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on :  if  they  look'd  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain. 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight. 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal -hearted  hung. 

The  proud  was  halfdisarm'd  of  pride. 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stem  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 
And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine  ; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were 
thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire. 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


JN  ME  MORI  AM. 


199 


The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  iiim  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act  ?  but  he. 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gendeness  he  seem'd  to  be. 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite. 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by. 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye. 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light ; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  bv  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 


High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies. 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  forever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much. 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 
And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made. 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  swav'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

CXII. 

'T  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 
Yethnwniuch  wisdom  sleeps withthee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise  ; 


For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  s'cill 
To  strive,  to  fishion,  to  fulfil  — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have 
been : 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force. 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course. 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and 

.  S°'       . 
With  agonies,  with  energies. 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 
And  undulations  to  and  fro. 


CXIII. 

Who  loves   not    Knowledge  ?      Who 
shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty?     Mav  she  mix 
With  menandprosper !    Who  shall  fix 

Her  pillars?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire : 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain. 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith. 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons?  fierv-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  jiower.     Let  her  know  her  place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild. 
If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  tlie  mind. 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  ])ower 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  a«d  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


IN  ME  MORI  A  31. 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue. 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale. 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  pleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their 
sky 
To  build  and  brood ;    that  live  their 
lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and 
takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all :  the  songs,  the  stirring  air. 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust. 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 

Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone  ; 

And   that   dear  voice    I   once  have 
known 
Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 
Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  liajipy  commune  dead  ; 

Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled. 
Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 


O  D\vs  and  liours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  iiiv  jiroper  place, 
A  little  wliilc  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  ; 


That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet  ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue. 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs. 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  stealsj 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime  ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day, 
Forever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began. 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime 
to  clime. 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and 
show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom. 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast. 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 


Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  tc> 
beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more  ;  the  city  sleeps . 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street : 


AV  MEMORIAM. 


I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds  ;  I  see 
Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-with- 
drawn 
A  ligln-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee, 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland. 
And  bright  the   friendship  of  thine 

eye  ; 
And  in  mythoughtswith  scarce  a  sigh 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

ex  IX. 

I  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath : 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries ;  not  in  vain. 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with 
Death ; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 
Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men, 

At  least  to  me  ?     I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  1  was  born  to  other  things. 


Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sim. 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him. 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done : 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain. 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore  ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night. 
By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is 

heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird  : 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light ; 

The  market  boat  is  on  tlie  stream. 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink; 
Thou   hear'st    the    village   hammer 
clink, 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper- Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  tlie  last. 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past, 

Thy  place  is  changed ;   thou  art  the 


O,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then. 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom. 
And    yearn'd    to    burst    the   folded 
gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law. 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now. 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath, 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thouglits  of  life  and  death : 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow. 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 


cxxir. 
There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the 
tree. 
O  earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  seen ! 
There  where  the   long  street  roars, 
hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From   form   to    form,    and   nothing 

stands ; 
They  meit  like  mist,  the  solid  lands. 
Like    clouds   they   shape    themselves 
and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it 
true  ; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu. 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  far?well. 

CXXIII. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless; 
Our    dearest   faith ;     our    ghastliest 

doubt; 
He,  Tliey,  One,  All ;   within,  with- 
out ; 
The  Power  in  darknesswhom  we  guess; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


i  fouiid  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
G«-  e.,glfe"3  \'vlng,  or  insect's  eye  ; 
Nor  thi'o'  tlie  t,-ieslions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cob.vebs  we  have  spun  : 

(f  e'er,  when  faitli  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "  Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-bree;king  shore 

That  tumbled  in  th2  Godless  deep ; 

A.  warmth  within  the  breast  would  .nelt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  p.irt, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd,  "  1  have  i^il.  " 

(.Vo,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear : 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise  ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

Sut,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 
What  is,  and  no  man  understands  ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 

CXXIV. 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp   would 
give, 

Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 
A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 
5fet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  ; 

She  did  l)ut  look  thro'  dimmer  eyes  ; 

Or  Love  bui  play'd  with  gracious  lies 
Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth : 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song ; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet   and 
strong. 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there  ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 
I'o  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps. 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

cxxv. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend. 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 


And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  aboutfrom  placate  place. 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space. 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

cxxvi. 
And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
lie  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear ; 
Well  roars  the   storm  to  those  that 
hear 
A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

£'ut  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown. 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags  > 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down. 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood  ; 
The  fortiess  crashes  from  on  high. 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  .cKon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar. 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  Is  well. 

cxxvii. 
The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 

Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death; 

Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 
That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 
No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 

Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made. 

And  throned  races  may  degrade  ; 
Yet,  O  ye  mysteries  of  good. 

Wild   Hours  that   fly  with  Hope  and 
Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new ; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword. 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies. 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries. 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word. 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power. 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk. 
To  make  old  bareness  p.icturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower  ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


203 


Why  then  my  scom  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  ni  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 


Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal  ; 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher  ; 

Known  and  unknown  ;  human,  divine  ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not 
die, 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be  ; 

Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

cxxix. 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun. 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?     I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

^Iy  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tlio'   mix'd  with  God   and   Nature 
thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  1  die. 


O  MViNG  will  that  shalt  endure 

When   all    that    seems  shall   sufTer 

shock. 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock. 
Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them 
pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  a^  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 


With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved. 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O  TRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  :  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this  ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 
Some  thrice  three  years  :  they  went 

and  came. 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the 
frame. 
And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set. 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 
Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times. 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wile  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  raoou 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes. 
And  then  on   thee  ;   they  meet  thy 

look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud. 
He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

Forever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 


204 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  thou  art  worthy  ;  full  of  power ; 
As  gentle  ;  libei'al-mindecl,  great, 
Consistent ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride  ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear : 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm. 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee  ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead  ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 
The  "wilt  thou,"  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "wilt  thou"    ask'd,  till  out  of 
twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will"  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be 
read. 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  mom, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them  —  maidens  of  the  place. 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the 
grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me. 
For  them  "the  light  of  life  increased. 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun  ; 
My  drooping  memoi-y  will  not  slum 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 


It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 
And  hearts  are  warm'd,   and  faces 

bloom. 
As    drinking   health   to    bride    and 
groom 
We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest, 
Perchance,    perchance,    among    the 
rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on. 
And  those  white-favor'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger  ;  it  is  late  ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew. 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she   look'd,   and  what  he 
said. 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee. 
The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the 

wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 
The   crowning  cup,    the    three-times- 
three. 

And  last  the  dance  ;  —  till  I  retire  : 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so 

loud. 
And  high   in  heaven  the  streaming 
cloud. 
And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  ; 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vajior  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head. 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and 
spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills  ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 


MA  UD. 


20S 


By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  liom  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds. 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  boni  and  think. 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge;   under  whose  com- 
mand 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their 
hand 
Is  Nature  like  an  open  book ; 


No  longer  half-akin  to  brute. 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and 

did. 
And  hoped,  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  llower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  iil  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves. 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element. 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MAUD,   AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


M  A  U  D . 


I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood. 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  biood-red  heath, 
Ihe  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  horror  of  blood. 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her,  answers  "  Death." 


For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a  body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life  —  O  father  !  O  God  !  was  it  well  ?  — 
Mangled,  and  tlatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and  dinted  into  the  ground: 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 


Did  he  fling  himself  down?  who  knows?  for  a  vast  speculation  had  fail'd. 
And  ever  he  muttcr'd  and  maddened,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair, 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd, 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 


I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stin'd 
By  a  shuffled  step,  by  a  dead  wcij^ht  traii'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright. 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a  shock  on  my  lieart  as  I  heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide  the  shuddering  ni;{ht. 


MA  UD. 

5- 
Viliany  somewhere  !  whose  ?     One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he  :  his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  mauUam'd : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain'd. 

6. 

Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace  ?  we  have  made  them  a  curse, 

Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own  ; 

And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone? 

7- 
But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind. 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word? 
Is  it  peace  or  war?     Civil  war,  as  1  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 


Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age  — why  not?     I  have  neither  hope  nor  trust  ; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint. 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die  :  who  knows  ?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 

9- 
Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by. 
When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine, 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie  ; 
Peace  in  her  vineyard  —  yes  !  —  but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 

lO. 

And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head. 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 
While  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread. 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights,  _ 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
I'o  pestle  a  poison'd  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a  burial  fee, 
And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of  children's  bones. 
Is  it  peace  or  war?  belter,  war  !  loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a  hundred  thrones. 

13- 
For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 
And  tlie  rushing  ba\tle-boIt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 
That  tiie  smooth-faced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  from  iiis  counter  and  till 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home.  — 


MA  UD. 

M- 
What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  shalter'd  limbs  and  a  wretched  swindler's  lie  ? 

15- 
Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ?  there  was  loz<e  in  the  passionate  shriek. 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave  — 
Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 

1 6. 
I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  stay?  can  a  sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here? 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain, 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear  ? 

17- 
There  are  workmen  up  at  the  Hall  :  they  are  coming  back  from  abroad  ; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionnaire  : 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child ;  she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 


Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 
Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 

19. 
What  is  she  now?     My  dreams  are  bad.     She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor ;  she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  my  books,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 


II. 

Long  have  I  sigh'd  for  a  calm  :  God  grant  I  may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  .salt, 

But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found  when  her  carriage  past, 

Perfectly  beautiful  :  let  it  be  granted  her  :  where  is  the  fault? 

All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  ici'y  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perlection,  no  more  ;  nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an  hour's  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little  too  ripe,  too  full. 

Or  the  least  iittle  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a  sensitive  nose. 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 


MA  UD. 
III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 
Breakinr;  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenlul  folly  was  drown'd, 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  profound  ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound. 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground. 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach  dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 


IV. 


A  MILLION  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit  —  ah,  wherefore  cannot  I  be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountifid  season  bland. 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a  softer  clime. 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of  sea, 
The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land? 


Below  me,  there,  is  the  villag;e,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small  ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite  ; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar ; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see  her  pass  like  a  light ; 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star ! 

3- 
When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race? 
I  met  her  to-day  with  lier  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd; 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor  ; 
But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd  over  her  beautiful  face. 

0  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 

4- 

1  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 
I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  like  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way  : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike, 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 


MA  UD. 


We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower ; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  luiseen  hand  at  a  game 
That  pushes  us  otT  tVoni  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  ? 
All  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour ; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  £;rin  at  a  brother's  shame  ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a  Tittle  breed. 


A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  tlame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man  : 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ?  is  he  not  too  base  ? 


The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor ; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl'd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  brain  ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  leani  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 


For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about? 

Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall?  shall'l  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail? 

Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout  ? 

I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 


Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways. 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies; 

F"rom  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  liissing  dispraise; 

Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not. 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  tiles. 


And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  fi-om  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 
The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 
Ah  Maud,  you  milkwhite  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above ; 
Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will ; 
You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 
14 


MA  UD. 


V. 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar-tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall  ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to 

me, 
A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
Ib  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of 

May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny 
sky. 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 
grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die. 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so 
sordid  and  mean. 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 


Silence,  beautiful  voice  ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  m  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  m'->re. 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 

choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall 

before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,    and 

adore. 
Not  her,   who  is  neither  courtlv  no»- 

kind. 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale. 

No  sun,  but  a  wannish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 


And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  a^  _ 

bow'd 
Caught  and  cuff 'd  by  the  gale  : 
I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet 
Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 
On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 
At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 
Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet? 
And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile 

so  sweet 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a  courtesy  not  retuni'd. 

3- 
And  thus  a  delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 
Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my 

dreams. 
Ready  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame  ; 
Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 
In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 


What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 

And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold. 

She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 

Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 

Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 

To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net 

And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 


Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty_ 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 

When  I  am  but  twenty-five? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'c? 

And  her  smile  were  all  that  I  drearn'd. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  biuer 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sw^et. 


What  If  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me. 
What  if  that  dandy-despot-  he. 
That  jeweli'd  mas"  of  iplllmery, 
-i     That  oil'a  and  cnrl'd  Assyrian  Bull 


'  She  came  to  the  village  church, 
And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone." 


^fA  UD. 


Smellingj  of  mw^k  and  of  insolence, 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I  keep  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof. 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn,  — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermom 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'd. 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 


For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and 

ward. 
Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 
Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard, 
For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool. 

8. 
Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 
For  am  I  not,  am  I  not,  here  alone 
So  many  a  summer  since  she  died. 
My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and 

good  ? 
Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 
Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood. 
Where  I  hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan, 
And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 

mouse. 
And  my  own  sad  name  in  comers  cried. 
When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is 

thrown 
About  its  echoing  chambers  wide. 
Till  a  morbid   hate  and   horror   have 

grown 
Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt. 
And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a  heart  half-turn' d  to  stone. 


9- 

O  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and 

caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 
For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  love, 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 

trip 
When   I   saw  the  treasured  splendor, 

her  hand. 


Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove. 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip  ; 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child  ; 

She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 

By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd. 

And  her  smile  had  all  that  I  dream'd. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VII. 


Did  I  hear  it  half  in  a  doze 
Long  since,  I  know  not  where? 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago. 
When  asleep  in  this  ann-chair? 

2. 

Men  were  drinking  together. 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me  : 

"Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty  :  so  let  it  be.*" 

3- 
Is  it  an  echo  of  something 

Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 
Viziers  nodding  together 

In  some  Arabian  niirht? 


Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me  ; 

"  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 
Will  have  plenty  :  so  let  it  be.'" 

VIII. 

She  came  to  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone  ; 

An  angel  watching  an  urn 

Wejit  over  her,  carved  in  stone  ; 

And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

And     suddenly,      sweetly,     strangely 

blush'd 
To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own  : 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat 

stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 
The  snowy-banded,  dilettante. 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone ; 


MAUD. 


And  thought,   is  it  pride,  and  mused 

and  sigh'd 
"  No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  jiride." 

IX. 

I  WAS  walking  a  mile. 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look'd  out  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land. 
Rapidly  riding  far  away. 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side. 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone  : 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
And  back  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


Sick,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread? 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor 

plucks 
The    slavish   hat   from    the    villager's 

head  ? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died. 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And   laying   his   trams  in   a  poison'd 

gloom 
Wrought,  till  he  crept  from  a  gutted 

mine 
Master  of  half  a  servile  shire. 
And  left  his  coal  all  turn'd  into  go'd 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line. 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken   breaths    at  a  work   di- 
vine. 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
New  as  his  title,  built  last  year,  _ 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 


What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out  ? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound   for  the    Hall,   I  am  sure  was 

he: 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  think  for  a 

bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance 

be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt. 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous  cry, 
At  war  with  myself  and   a  wretched 

race, 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 

3- 
Last  week  came  one  to  the  county  town, 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down. 
And  play  tlie  game  of  the  despot  kings, 
Tho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice 

as  well : 
This    broad-brim'd    hawker    of    holy 

things, 
Whose  ear  is  stuff'd  with  his  cotton, 

and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his 

pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war !   can  he 

tell 
Whether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  conse- 
quence ? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth 

Hell  ! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down  !  cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside, 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 


I  wish  I  could  hear  again  • 

Tlie  chivalrous  battle-song 
That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  I 
I  might  persuade  myself  then 
SheVould  not  do  herself  this  great 

wrong 
To  take  a  wanton,  dissolute  boy 
For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 


MA  UD. 


a'3 


Ah  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head, 

hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by, 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat, — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 


And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me. 
That  the  man  1  am  may  cease  to  be 


XI. 


0  LET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

1  shall  liave  had  my  day. 

2. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me  ; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

XIL 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Wh;n  t%vilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

2. 

Where  was  Maud?  in  our  wood  ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her. 
Gathering  woodland  lilies. 

Myriads  blow  together. 


Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  heri 
in  among  the  lilies. 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand. 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 
But  she  is  tali  and  :>tately. 

5- 
I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

W  ho  have  won  her  favor  ! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
if  lowliness  could  save  her. 

6. 

1  know  the  way  she  went 

Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 
For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

7- 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
Where  is  Maud,  ^Laud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

8. 
Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling. 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor. 

You  are  not  her  darling. 

XIIL 


Scorn' D,  to  be  scom'd  by  one  that  I 

scorn, 
I  s  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
ihat  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 
Fool  that  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his 

pride  ! 
I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands  ; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside  ; 
His  face,  as  I  grant,  in  spite  of  spite. 
Has  a  broad- blown  comeliness,  red  and 

white, 
And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands  ; 
Hut  his  essences  turn'd  the  live  air  sick. 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn'd   itself  on   his  breast   and   his 

hands. 

2. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship ; 


214 


MAUD. 


But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an 

air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  iVom  head  to  Toot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 


Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father's  chair? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place  : 
Shall  1  believe  him  ashamed  to  be  seen  ? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street, 
Last  year,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 

face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scarcely,  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat ; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit. 
She  might  by  a   true   descent  be  un- 
true ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet ; 
Tho'  I  fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side  ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete, 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin  : 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother. 
And  heap'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race. 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 


Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  ! 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  ? 


XIV. 


^L\UD  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn  ; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden  gate  ; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top, 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion-flower. 

2. 

Maud's  own  little  oak-room 
(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 
Set  in  the  heart  of  tlie  carven  gloom. 
Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 


She  sits  by  her  music  and  books, 
And  her  brother  lingers  late 
With  a  roistering  company)  looks 
Upon  Maud's  own  garden  gate  : 
And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  as 

white 
As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my 

Delight  _        . 

Had  a  sudden  desire,  like  a  glorious 

ghost,  to  glide, 
Like  a  beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven, 

down  to  my  side. 
There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

3- 
The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind. 
And  again  seem'd  overbold  ; 
Now   I   thought   that  she    cared    for 

me, 
Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 
Only  because  she  was  cold. 


I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood  ; 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  it 

s  weird 
Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawTi ; 
But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the 

house  I  beheld 
The  death-white  curtain  drawTi ; 
Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep. 
Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath. 
Knew    that   the    death-white    curtain 

meant  but  sleep. 
Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool 

of  the  sleep  of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells, 
And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer. 

That  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much 
to  fear ; 

But  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else. 
Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 

Shall   I   not  take  care   of  all    that  I 
think. 

Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink. 

If  1  be  dear. 

If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else  ? 


MA  LTD. 


2IS 


XVI. 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 
And  so  that  lie  find  what  he  went  to 

seek, 
And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and 

drown 
His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of 

town, 
He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone 

for  a  week : 
But  this  is  the  day  when  I  must  speak, 
And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 
()  this  is  the  day  ! 
( )  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way  ; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet, 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her 

breast, 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender 

dread. 
From  the  delicate   Arab  arch   of  her 

feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as 

the  crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not :  O,  if  she  knew 

it. 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 
I  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  lite  in  tlie  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from 

crime. 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 


What,  if  she  be  fasten'd  to  this  fool 

lord, 
Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word? 
Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low? 
Sliall  I  love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me  ? 
I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


Catch   not   my  breath,    O   clamorous 

heart, 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a  thrall  to  my  eye, 
For  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
1  must  tell  her,  or  die. 


xvn. 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

From  tiie  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  hajipy  day. 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships. 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West , 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree. 
And  tlie  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks. 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


XVIIL 


I  HAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 
friend. 

There  is  none  like  her.  none. 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for 
end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  prom- 
ised good. 


None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pat- 
tering talk 

Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk. 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes 
once  more ; 


2l6 


MAUD. 


But  even  then  I  heard  herclose  the  door, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and 
she  is  gone. 


There  is  none  Hke  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have 

deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 

delicious  East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon, 
Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here 

increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair. 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed 

my  fate. 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar- 
flame ; 
And  over  whom   thy  darkness  must 

have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy 

great 
Forefathers  ot  the  thornless  garden, 

there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from 

whom  she  came. 

4- 
Here    will    I    lie,   while    these    long 

branches  sway. 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy 

day 
( io  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 
To  labor  and    the    mattock-harden'd 

hand. 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to 

understand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron 

skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 

5- 
But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 
pearl 


The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow 

sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  wou.d 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one 

simple  girl. 


Would  die  ;  for  sullen-seeming  Death 

may  give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet 

to  live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass ; 
It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 


Not  die ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 

wrongs. 
O,   why   should    Love,    like    men    in 

drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of 

death? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long 

lover's  kiss. 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer 

this  ? 
"  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 

here 
With   dear   Love's   tie,    makes   Love 

himself  more  dear." 


Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder 
bay? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver 
knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bri- 
dal white. 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses 
play ; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her 
sight 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and 
stol'n  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fan- 
cies dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden 
day. 


MA  UD. 


217 


May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace 

affright  ! 
Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 

spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 
My  own  heart's  heart  and  owiiest  own 

farewell ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and 

fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 

glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 

bright  ? 
/  have   climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely 

Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things 

below. 
Beat  with  my  heart   more  blest  than 

heart  can  tell. 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent 

woe 
That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not 

be  so: 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


XIX. 


Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night. 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream?  do  I  dream  of  bliss? 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 

0  when  did  a  morning  sliine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watching  a  mother  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and 

mine  : 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  ? 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 

3- 

1  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I   ha^e  cursed    him   even   to   lifeless 

things) 
But  I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk, 
Not  touch  on  her  father's  sin : 


I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 
Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 
When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin. 
That  I  telt  she  was  slowly  dying 
Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass  d  with 

debt: 
For  how  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes 

all  wet, 
Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sighing 
A  world  of  trouble  within  ! 


And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 
To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 
As  one  scarce  less  forlorn. 
Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 
t  rom  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her 

heart. 
And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 
The  household    Fury   sprinkled   with 

blood 
By  which  our  houses  are  torn  : 
How  strange  was  what  she  said, 
Whcjn  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed,  — 
That  Maud's  dar;c  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine. 
On  the  day  when  Maud  was  boni ; 
Seal'd   her  mine  from  her  first  sweet 

breath. 
Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till 

death, 
Mine,  mine  —  our  fathers  have  sworn. 

5- 
But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond, 
That,  if  left  uncancell'd,  had  been  so 

sweet : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something 

beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the 

child. 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb. 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  recon- 
ciled ; 
And  I  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom, 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run 

wild 
While   often   abroad    in    the    fragrant 

gloom 
Of  foreign  churches,  —  I  see  her  there, 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled  ! 


2l8 


MAUD. 


But  then  what  a  flint  is  he  ! 
Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 
I  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  ine 
This  brother  had  laugh'd  lier  down, 
And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 
He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown. 
Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before  ; 
And  this  was  what  had  redden 'd  her 

cheek, 
When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 

7- 
Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 
To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 
I  see  she  cannot  but  love  him, 
And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind, 
And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 
And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 
Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse, 
That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and 

play, 
Sat  with  her,  read   to  her,  night  and 

day. 
And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 


Kind  ?  but  the  death-bed  desire 
Spurn'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 
Rough  but  kind  ?  yet  I  know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this. 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud?  that  were  not  amiss. 
Well,  rough  but  kind ;  why,  let  it  be 

so: 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  ? 


For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 
As  long  as  my  life  endures 
1  feel  1  shall  owe  you  a  debt. 
That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay  ; 
And  if  ever  I  should  forget 
'I'hat  I  owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sv\  eet  sake  to  yours  ; 

0  then,  what  then  shall  I  say?  — 
If  ever  I  should  forget. 

May  God  make  ine  more  wretched 

1  han  ever  I  have  been  yet  1 

ID. 

So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 
I  feel  so  free  and  so  clear 


By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight. 
That  I  should  grow  light-headed,  I  fear, 
Fantastically  merry ; 
But   that   her  brother  comes,   like   a 

blight 
On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 

XX. 

Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay, 
Strange,  that  I  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,  — 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly: 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners, 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two, 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather. 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
t>e  the  neater  and  completer ; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
I'o  half  the  sciuirelings  near; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels. 
And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover, 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

3- 
A  grand  political  dinner 
I'o  the  men  of  many  acres, 
A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 
A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 
For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers. 
And  every  eye  but  mii.e  will  glance 
At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

4; 

For  I  am  not  invited. 

But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardon. 


MAUD. 


319 


I  am  all  as  well  delighted, 
For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden, 
And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over; 
And  then,  O  then,  come  out  to  rae 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute. 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivui-ET  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden  rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall, 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea  ; 

O  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  "  Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-iaight." 


XXII. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 

And  tl>e  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 
7'o  taint  in  the   light   of'  the  sun  she 
loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

3- 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirr'd 


To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 

Till  a  silence  fell  with  tiie  waking  bird. 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

4- 
I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

Siie  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

-And  half  to  t!i3  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

5- 
I  said  to  the  rose,    "  The  brief  night 
goes 
In  b.abbie  and  revel  and  wine. 
O   young    lord-lover,   what   sighs  are 
those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"  Forever  and  ever,  mine." 

6. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 

blood. 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on 
to  the  wood. 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 


From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the   woody   hollows  in  which  we 
meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

8. 
The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ' 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 
lake. 
As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  \ 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake. 
Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake. 
They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  tliee. 


MAUD. 


Qaeen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 
Shine   out,   little   head,  sunning  over 
with  curls. 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  cominiT,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,   "  She  is  near,  she 
is  near"  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is 
late  "  ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear"  ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  du>t  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


XXIII. 


"The  fault  was  mine,  the   fault  was 

mine"  — 
Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stunn'd  and 

still, 
Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on 

the  hill?  — 
It  is  this  guilty  hand  !  — 
And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 
From    underneath    in    the   darkenmg 

land  — 
What  is  it,  that  has  been  done? 
O  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and 

sky, 
The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  ris- 
ing sun. 
The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate  ; 
For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken 

a  word, 


When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the 

gate. 
He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord  ; 
Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 
And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  to  be 

cool. 
He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie, 
lill  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 
And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the 

face. 
Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by : 
Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke  : 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable 

woe  ; 
For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 
And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  ech- 
oes broke 
From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the 

wood, 
And  thunder'd  up   into    Heaven   the 

Christless  code, 
That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 
Ever  and  ever  afresli  they  seemd  to 

grow. 
Was   it  he   lay  there  with    a    fading 

eye  ? 
"The  fault  was  mine,"  he  whisper'd, 

"fly!" 
Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The    ghastly   Wraith    of  one   that    I 

know ; 
And  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  passion- 
ate cry, 
A  cry'  for  a  brother's  blood  : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears, 

till  i  die,  till  I  die. 


Is  it  gone?  my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it  ?  a  lying  trick  of  the  brain  ? 

Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  IS  gone  ;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a 

gentle  rain. 
When  they  should   burst    and   drown 

with  deluging  storms 
The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger 

and  lust, 
The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to 

forgive : 
Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 

Thee  just. 


MA  UD. 


Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race   of 

venomous  worms. 
That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust ; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live.  • 


XXIV. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot. 
Frail,  but  a  work  di^-ine. 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl. 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  1 

2. 

What  is  it?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  c'umsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can. 
The  beauty  wouid  be  the  same. 

3- 
The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn. 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fair\'  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world? 


Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand. 
Small,  but  a  work  divine. 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand. 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cauract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock,    . 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  I 


Breton,  not  Briton  ;  here 

Like  a  shipwTeck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear, — 

P  a^ed  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

I'hat  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below. 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye. 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main,  — 


Why  should  it  look  like  Maud? 
Am  I  to  be  overawe  i 
By  what  I  cannot  but  know 
Is  a  juggle  bom  of  the  brain  ? 

6. 
Back  from  the  Breton  coast. 
Sick  of  a  nameless  fear. 
Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 
Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost ; 
An  old  song  vexes  my  ear  ; 
But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 


For  years,  a  measiu-eless  ill. 
For  years,  forever,  to  part,  — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still ; 
And  as  lon^,  O  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me. 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt. 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart. 
However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

8. 
Stranze,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 
With  a  passion  so  intense 
One  would  think  that  it  we'l 
Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 
That  it    should,    by  being    so  over- 
wrought. 
Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 
For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 
Which  else  would  have  been  past  by  ! 
And  now  I  remember,  I, 
When  he  lay  dyinj  there, 
I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 
(For  he  had  many,   poor  worm)  and 

thought 
It  is  his  mother's  hair. 


\Vho  knows  if  he  be  dead  ? 

Whether  I  need  have  fled? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood? 

Hovvever  this  may  be, 

Comfort   her,  comfort  her,  all   things 

good. 
While  I  am  over  the  sea  ! 
Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by. 
But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and 

high. 
Whatever  happen  to  me  I 
Mc  and  my  hannful  love  go  by  ; 
But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep^ 


MA  UD. 


Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the 

deep, 
And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

XXV. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone  1 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  forever  alone  : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why. 

Care  not  thou  to  reply : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 


XXVI. 


O  THAT  'twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pam 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 


When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth. 
We  stood  tranced  \x\  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

3- 
A  shadow  flits  before  me. 
Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  ; 
Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 
For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved, ,  that  they  might 

tell  us 
What  and  where  they  be. 


It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  wiiite  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  rse's 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 


Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  dellglit  of  early  skies; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 


For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter. 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

6. 

'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 
'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet ; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  oM, 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 
M  y  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passion- 
ate cry, 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead. 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled  ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold. 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

8. 
Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again. 
Mix  not  memory  witli  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about, 
'T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  -will  show  itself  without. 

9- 
Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

lO. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I  steal,  a  wasted  frame. 
It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 
Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud. 


AfA  UD. 


223 


The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 
And  on  my  lieavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

II. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call. 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  Ml. 


Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  tile  rea  ms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street. 
As  she  looks  among  the  b  est, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  "forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest?" 

13- 
But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 
And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 
An'l  will  not  let  me  be  ; 
And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 
And  the  faces  that  one  meets. 
Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 
Always  I  long  to  creep 
Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 
There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 


XXVII. 

I. 
Dead,  long  dead. 
Long  dead  I 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust, 
And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head, 
And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain. 
For  into  a    shallow    grave    they  are 

thrust. 
Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street. 
And  the  honfs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 
'I  he  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 
Beat  into  my  scalji  and  my  brain. 
With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of 

pasMng  feet. 
Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying, 
Clamoi  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and 

clatter, 
And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 


For  I  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but 

it  is  not  so  ; 
To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 

not  sad? 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go  ; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  ciiatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 


Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began. 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  man  ; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days 

that  are  gone. 
Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was 

read  ; 
It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  tha 

world  of  the  dead  ; 
There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 

one  ; 
A  touch  of  their  office  might  have  suf- 
ficed. 
But   the   churchmen    fain    would   kill 

their  churcli. 
As    the    churches    have    kill'd    their 

Christ. 


See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 

No  limit  to  his  distress  ; 

And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things,  pray- 
ing 

To  his  own  great  self,  as  I  guess  ; 

And  another,  a  statesman  there,  be- 
traying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  pre^s  ; 

And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  blabbing 

The  case  of  his  patient,  — all  for  what? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  bom  in  an  empty 
head, 

And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him 
not, 

For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 


Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 

Yox  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood. 

Has  come  to  pass  as  toretold  ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  publifl 

good. 
But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 
For  I  never  whisper'd  a  private  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 


224 


3fA  UD. 


No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 
But   I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from 

the  top  of  the  house  ; 
Everything  came  to  be  known  : 
Who  told  him  we  were  there  ? 


Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came  not 

back 
From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves, 

wiiere  he  used  to  lie  ; 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'er- 

grown  whelp  to  crack  ; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl, 

and  die. 


Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the 

rat; 
I  know  not  whether  he  came  in  the 

Hanover  ship, 
But  I  know   that   he   lies  and  listens 

mute 
In  an  ancient  mansion's  crannies  and 

holes : 
Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 
Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 

poor  souls  ! 
It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 


Tell  him  now  :  she  is  standing  here  at 

my  head ; 
Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind  ; 
He  may  take  her  now ;  for  she  never 

speaks  her  mind. 
But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  is  not  of  us,  as  I  divine  ; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world 

of  the  deid. 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows. 
Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside. 
All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season 

is  good. 
To  the  sound  of  dancing   music  and 

flutes: 
It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits. 
And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses, 

but  blood ; 


For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride, 

He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spec- 
tral bride  ; 

For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of 
brutes. 

Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side? 


But  what  will  the  old  man  say? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  pit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy 

day  ; 
Yet  now  I  could  even  weep  to  think 

of  it; 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse 

in  the  pit  ? 

lO. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe. 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 
Thit  were  a  public  merit,  far, 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin  ; 
But   the   red   life    spilt   for  a  private 

blow  — 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 

0  me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me 

deep  enough  ? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a  grave  so 

rough. 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper? 
Maybe  still  I  am  but  half-dead; 
Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb; 

1  will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head. 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart 

will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 

XXVIII. 


Mv  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken 
wing 

Thro'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  hor- 
ror and  fear. 

That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a 
little  thing : 

My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a 
time  of  year 

When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the 
dewy  downs. 


MAUD. 


235 


And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the 

Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious 

crowns 
Over  Orion's   grave  low  down  in  the 

west, 
That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the     ' 

stars 
She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from 

a  band  of  the  blest, 
And  spoke  of  a  hope  tor  the  world  in 

the  coming  wars  — 
"And    in   that   hope,    dear    soul,    let 

trouble  have  rest. 
Knowing  I  taiTv  for  thee,"  and  pointed 

to  Mars 
As  he  glow'd  like  a  ruddy  shield  on  the 

Lion's  breast. 


And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded 

a  dear  delight 
To  have  look'd,  tho'  but  in  a  dream, 

upon  eyes  so  fair, 
That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my 

one  thing  bright ; 
And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  light- 

en'd  my  despair 
When  I  thi)uglit  that  a  war  would  arise 

in  defence  of  the  right, 
That  an  iron  tyranny  now  shou'd  'oend 

or  cease,  I 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his     ! 

ancient  height,  I 

Nor   Britain's   one   sole   God  be   the 

millionnaire  : 
No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all, 

and  Peace 
Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid 

note, 
And  witch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd 

increase, 
Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  sloth- 
ful shore. 
And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  can- 
non's throat 
Sha'l  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the 

wind  no  more. 


And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of 

battle  grew, 
"  It  is  time,  it  is  time,   O  passionate 

heart,"  said  I 

15 


(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to 

be  pure  and  true), 
"It  is  time,  O    passionate   heart  and 

morbid  eye, 
Thai     old    hysterical     mock -disease 

should  die." 
And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mix'd 

my  breath 
With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle 

cry. 
Till  I  saw  the   dreary  phantom  arise 

and  tly 
Far  into  the   North,  and  battle,  and 

seas  of  death. 


Let  it  go  or  stay,   so  I  wake  to  the 

higher  aims 
Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her 

lust  of  gold, 
And  love  of  a  i^eace  that  was  full  of 

wrongs  and  siiames. 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be 

told  ; 
And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of 

battle  unroU'd  ! 
Tho'  many  a  light  shall   darken,  and 

many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash 

of  jarring  claims, 
Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'd 

on  a  giant  liar  ; 
And  many  a   darkness  into  the   light 

shall  leap. 
And  shine  in  th2    sudden  making   of 

splendid  names. 
And  noble -thought  be  freer  under  the 

sun. 
And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with 

one  desire  ; 
For  the  peace,  that  I  deem'd  no  peace, 

is  over  and  done. 
And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and 

thi  Biltic  deep. 
And  deathful-grinning    mouths  of  the 

fortress,  fl.i:nes 
The  blood-red  biossora  of  war  with  a 

heart  of  tire. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll 

down  like  a  wind, 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a 

cause,  we  are  noble  still. 


226 


THE   BROOK. 


And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems, 

to  the  better  mind  ; 
It  is  better  to  fight  for  tiie  good,  than 

to  rail  at  the  ill ; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am 

one  with  my  kind, 
I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the 

doom  assign'd. 


THE  BROOK; 

AN    IDYL. 

"  Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted ;  I 

to  the  East 
And  he  for  Italy  —  too  late  —  too  late  : 
One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world 

despise ; 
For  lucky  rhymes  to   him   were  scrip 

and  share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for 

cent ; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  money 

breeds. 
Thought  it  a  dead  thing ;  yet  himself 

could  make 
The   thing   that   is   not   as   the  thing 

that  is. 

0  had  he  lived  !     In  our  school-books 

we  say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above 

the  crowd, 
They  flourish'd  then  or  then  ;  but  life 

in  him 
Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only 

touch'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf. 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of 

green. 
And  nothing  perfect :  yet  the  brook  he 

loved. 
For  which,  in   branding   summers  of 

Bengal, 
Or  ev'n  the  sweet  half- English  Neil- 

gherry  air, 

1  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it. 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the 

boy, 
To  me  that  loved  him  ;  for  '  O  brook,' 

he  says, 
'O  babbling  brook,'  says  Ednmnd  in 

his  rhyme. 
Whence  come  you?'  and  the  brook, 

why  not?  replies. 


I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go,. 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

"  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence, 
quite  worn  out. 

Travelling  to  Naples.  There  is  Dam- 
ley  bridge, 

It  has  more  ivy;  there  the  river;  and 
there 

Stands  Philip's  farm  where  brook  and 
river  meet. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

1  babble  on  the  pebbles. 
With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
At  d  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 
I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  1  go  on  forever. 

"  But  Philip  chatter'd  more  than 
brook  or  bird ; 

Old  Philip  ;  all  about  the  fields  you 
caught 

His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  th# 
dry 

High-elbow'd  grigs  that  leap  in  sum- 
mer grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Ui>on  me,  as  1  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  eravel, 


'W' 


'  I  come  from  liaunts  of  coot  and  her 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern." 


THE   BROOK. 


227 


And  draw  ihem  all  alon;,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  miy  coma  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

"O  d. It  ling  Katie  Willows,  his  one 

cliild  ! 
A   maiden   of  our   century,    yet  most 

meek ; 
A  daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not 

coarse : 
Straight,   but  as  lissome   as   a   hazel 

wand ; 
Her  eyes  a   bashful    azure,   and  her 

hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 

the  shell 
Divides   threefold    to  show  the   fruit 

within. 

"  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good 

turn, 
Her  and   her  far-off  cousin   anl  be- 
trothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart 

with  her. 
For  here  I  came,  twenty  years  bac'c,  — 

the  week. 
Before  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund  ; 

cro^t 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins 

then. 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow   for  tlie 

gle.im 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry  — 

crost. 
Whistling    a    random   bar   of   Bonny 

Doon, 
And   pu-ih'd  at   Philip's   garden-gate. 

The  gate, 
Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding 

hinge, 
Stuck ;  and  he  clamor'd  from  a  case- 

rnent,  '  run ' 
To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  be- 
low, 
'  Run,  Katie  ! '   Katie  never  ran  :  she 

moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine 

bowers, 
A   little    flutter'd,    with    her    eyelids 

down. 
Fresh  apple-blossom,   blushing  for  a 

boon. 


"What   was  it?    less   of  sentiment 

than  sense 
Had  Katie  ;  not  illiterate  ;  neither  one 
Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  fictivo 

tears. 
And  nursed  by  mealy -mouth'd  philan- 

thropes. 
Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the 

Deed. 

"  She  told  me.  She  and  James  hai 
quarrell'd.     Why? 

What  cause  of  quarrel?  None,  she 
said,  no  caii-ie  ; 

James  h\d  no  cause  :  but  when  I  prest 
the  cause, 

I  learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jeal- 
ousies 

Which  anger'd  her.  Who  anger'd 
James?  I  said. 

But  Katie  snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once 
from  mine. 

And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 
foot 

Some  fi:ciire  like  a  wizard's  pentacram 

On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pa<s 

Unclaim'd,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I 
ask'd 

If  James  were  coming.  'Coming  ev- 
ery day,' 

She  answer'd,  '  ever  longing  to  explain, 

But  evermore  her  father  came  across 

With  some  lonc::-windedtale,  and  broke 
him  short ; 

And  James  departed  vext  with  him 
and  her.' 

How  could  I  help  her?  'Would  I  — 
was  it  wrong?' 

(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary 
grace 

Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere 
she  spo',;e) 

'  O  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 

For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to 
me ! ' 

And  even  while  she  spoke.  I  saw  where 
James 

Made  toward  us,  like  a  wader  in  the 
surf. 

Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  mead- 
ow-sweet. 

"O  Katie,  what  I  suflTer'd  for  vour 
sake  ! 
For  in  I  went,  and  call'd  old  Philip  out 


228 


THE  BROOK. 


To   show  the  farm :    full  willingly  he 

rose  : 
He  led  me  thro'  the  short  sweet-smell- 
ing lanes 
Of  his  wheat  suburb,  babbling  as  he 

went. 
He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his 

machines ; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 

hogs,  his  dogs  ; 
He  praised  his  hens,   his  geese,  his 

guinea-hens ; 
His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their 

roofs 
Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own 

deserts : 
Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat 

he  took 
Her   blind   and   shuddering    puppies, 

naming  each, 
And   naming    those,    his  friends,    for 

whom  they  were  : 
Then  crost  the  common  into  Damley 

chase 
To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.     In  copse 

and  fern 
Twinkled    the    innumerable    ear    and 

tail. 
Then,    seated     on     a    serpent-rooted 

beech, 
He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and 

said  : 
'That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the 

Squire.' 
And  there  he  told  a  long,  long-winded 

tale 
Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt  at 

(ji'ass. 
And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 

wish'd. 
And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 
To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price 

he  ask'd, 
And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was 

mad, 
But  he  stood  firm ;  and  so  the  matter 

hung ; 
He  gave  them  line  :  and  five  days  after 

that 
He  met  the  bailiflfat  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  some- 
thing more, 
But  he  stood  firm ;  and  so  the  matter 

hung; 


He  knew  the  man  ;  the  colt  would  fetch 

its  price  ; 
He  gave  them  line  :  and  how  by  chance 

at  last 
(Tt  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot. 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 
He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm, 
And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew 

him  in, 
And  there  he  mellow'd  all  his  heart 

with  ale. 
Until  tliey  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in 

hand. 

"Then,  while  I  breathed  in  sight  of 
haven,  he, 

Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it  ?  recom- 
menced, 

And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 

Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tal- 
lyho. 

Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the 
Jilt, 

Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  the 
rest, 

Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  T  arose, 

And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;  and 
so 

We  turn'd  our  foreheads  from  the  fall- 
ing sun, 

And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice 
as  long 

As  when  they  follow'd  us  from  Philip's 
door. 

Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet 
content 

Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things 
well. 

r  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide' by  hazel  covers  ; 
T  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses : 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 


THE  LETTERS. 


229 


And  out  again  \  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  briniiniiig  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go  ;  and  these 

are  gone, 
All  gone.     My   dearest  brother,    Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 
Not  by   the   well-known   stream  and 

rustic  spire. 
But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
Of  Brunelleschi ;  sleeps  in  peace  :  and 

he. 
Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of 

words 
Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb : 
I   scraped   the  lichen  from  it :   Katie 

walks 
By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 
Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other 

stars. 
And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.     All 

are  gone." 

So  Lawrence   Aylmer,   seated  on  a 

stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his 

mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er 

the  brook 
A  tonsured  head   in  middle  age   for- 
lorn. 
Mused,  and  was  mute.     On  a  sudden 

a  low  breath 
Of  tender   air    made    tremble   in   the 

hedge 
The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony 

rings ; 
And  he   look'd   up.     There   stood  a 

maiden  near, 
Waiting  to  pass.     In  much  amaze  he 

stared 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 

the  shell 
Divides   threefold    to   show   the    fruit 

within  : 
Then,  wondering,  ask'd  her,  "  Are  you 

from  the  mrm?" 
"Yes,"  answer'd  she.     "Pray  stay  a 

little  :  pardon  me  ; 
What  do  they  call  you?"    "Katie." 

"That  were  strancre. 


What  surname?"  "Willows."  "No!" 

"That  is  my  name." 
"  Indeed  ! "  and  here  he  look'd  so  self- 

perplext. 
That    Katie    laugh'd,    and    laughing 

blush'd,  till  he 
Laugh'd  also,   but  as  one   before  he 

wakes. 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  ia 

his  dream. 
Then  looking  at   her ;    "  Too   happy, 

fresh  and  fair, 
loo  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's 

best  bloom. 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 

name 
About   these   meadows,   twenty  years 

ago." 

"  Have  you  not  heard  ? "  said  Katie, 
"  we  came  back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  be- 
fore. 

Am  I  so  like  her?  so  they  said  on 
board. 

Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English 
days. 

My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the 
days 

That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come 
with  me. 

My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest- 
field: 

But  she  — you  will  be  welcome  — O, 
come  in  ! " 


THE   LETTERS. 

Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd  the  stagnant  air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow ; 
"  Cold  altar.  Heaven  and  earth  shall 
meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 

2. 
I  tuni'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 
That  mock'd  the  wholesome  hu™»n 
heart. 


ODE   ON   THE  DEATH  OF   WELLINGTON: 


And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 
We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 

Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry  ; 
She  faintlysmiled,  she  hardly  moved; 

1  saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 
She  wore  the  colors  I  approved. 


She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  com- 
prest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could 
please  ; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 


She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar  ; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
"  No  more  of  love  ;  your  sex  is  known  : 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 


"Thro'   slander,    meanest    spawn    of 
Hell 

(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst). 
And  you,  whom  once  I  lov'd  so  well. 

Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I    shook    her    breast    with    vague 
alarms  — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rush'd  into  each  other's  arms. 


We  parted  :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars. 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue. 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile, 

So  fresh  theyrose  in  shadow'd  swells ; 
*' Dark  porch,''  I  said,  "  and  silent  aisle 

There  comes  a  soimd  of  marriage 
bells." 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 

DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

I. 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation. 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming   London's  central 

roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 


Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe. 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go. 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it 

grow. 
And   let  the  mournful   martial   music 

blow ; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 

Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O   friends,    our    chief   state-oracle   is 

mute  : 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring 

blood. 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  res- 
olute. 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  ofamplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time. 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are. 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 


ODE   ON    THE   DEATH   OF   WELLINGTON.                 231 

0  voice  from  which  their  omens  all 

6. 

men  drew, 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd 

0  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

guest. 

()  fail'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  sol- 

Which  stood^  four-square    to   all    the 

dier  and  with  priest, 

winds  that  blew ! 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

on  my  rest? 

Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

seen  no  more. 

Thine  island'  loves  thee  well,  thou  fa- 

mous man. 

5- 

The  greatest  sailor  since   our  world 

All  is  over  and  done  : 

began. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums. 

England,  for  thy  son. 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

For  this  is  he 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

His  foes  were  tliine  ;  he  kept  us  free ; 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

()  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he. 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites. 

There  he  shall  rest  forever 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights. 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

Nor  ever'lovt  an  English  gun; 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

l^rlght  let  it  be  with  his  blazon'd  deeds, 

Against  the  myriads  of  .\ssnye 

Dark  in  its  fimeral  fold. 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  underneath  another  sun. 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

knoll'd ; 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  an- 

Tlie treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

them  roll'd 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

loss ; 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew. 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms. 

His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows. 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  ; 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

When    he    with    those    deep    voices 

Past  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

wrought, 

P'ollow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

Guarding  realmsand  kings  from  shame; 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 

Roll of  cannon  and  cla-~h  of  arms. 

tain  taught 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Again  their  ravening  eade  rose 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadow- 

!n  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same. 

"  ing  wings. 

A  man  of  wel!-attemper'd  frame. 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 

C)  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

Till  one  that  sought  but   Duty's  iron 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

crown 

To  such  a  name. 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoilei 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame. 

down  ; 

And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  t 

232                 ODE   ON  THE   DEATH  OF   WELLINGTON. 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd   them- 

sown 

selves  away ; 

Betwixt   a  people   and    their  ancient 

■         Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 

throne. 

;         Ihro'  the  long-tormented  air 

That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

springs 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 

Our   loyal  passion  for  our  temperate 

overthrew. 

kings ; 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  man- 

What long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

kind 

In  that  world's-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 

Till   public  wrong  be   crumbled   into 

Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true. 

dust, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 

guile, 

of  mind, 

0  savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle. 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

be  just. 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 

I  f  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

thine  ! 

wall; 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

voice 

Forever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 

In  full  acclaim, 

Forever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 

A  people's  voice, 

In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  rem'ember  all 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the   Man 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

who  spoke  ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

hour, 

With  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Nor    palter'd  with   Eternal   God   for 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

power  ; 

7- 
A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor 

flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams 

low ; 

forget 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language 

Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 

rife 

Powers ; 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 

Thank   Him  who  isled  us  here,   and 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 

roughly  set 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one 

His  Saxon  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

rebuke 

showers, 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the 

right : 

debt 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and 

named  ; 

regret 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 

To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

kept  it  ours. 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

And  keep  it  ours,  0  God,  from  brute 

8. 

control  ; 

O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 

tlie  soul 

Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England 

Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands. 

wliole. 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 

ODE   ON  THE  DEATH  OF   WELLINGTON. 


233 


Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her 

honi. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great. 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  tiiat  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He   shall    find    the    stubborn    thistle 

bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island- 
story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and 

hands. 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light 

has  won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd. 
Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 

scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon 

and  sun. 
Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  states- 
man pure  ; 
Till  in  all  landsand  thro' all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 
And   let   the   land  whose   hearths   he 

saved  from  shajne 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 
And   when   the   long-illumined    cities 

flame. 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  h(mor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  j'et  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see: 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 


Late  the  little  children  clung : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart 

and  brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe 

hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity. 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we. 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 

roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
Hush,   the  Dead  March  wails  in  the 

people's  ears  : 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 

sobs  and  tears : 
The   black  earth  yawns:    the   mortal 

disappears  ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  ; 
He  is  gone  who  seemd  so  great.  — 
Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave 

him. 
But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown. 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him 
1852. 


234 


THE  DAISY. 


THE   DAISY. 

WRITTEN    AT    EDINBURGH. 

O  Love,  what  hours  were  thine  and 

mine, 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine  ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  giow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 
By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue  ; 
Where,    here   and   there,    on   sandy 
beaches 
A  milky-bell'd'amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove. 

Now   watching    high   on    mountain 
cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim  ; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 
Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most. 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  ihey  boast ; 

But  distant  color,  hap]iy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast. 
Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ;  _ 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 
We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  coM, 
Those  niched  shajies  of  noble  mould, 

A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Casein^, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 


In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet. 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd. 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Ox  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires. 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires. 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the 
glory  ! 
A  mount  ot  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  falntly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 
A   thousand   shadowy-pencili'd  val- 
leys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded  ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day. 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way. 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

'i'he  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 
But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  sum 
mit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 


TO   THE  RE  V.  F.  D.  MA  URICE.  —  WILL. 


23S 


It  lolil  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me. 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by  : 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 
The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and 
Earth, 
The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain. 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain. 
Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside 
me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 

Come,  when  np  graver  cares  employ, 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy  : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
Making  the  Uttle  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few. 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 
Should  eighty  thousand  college  coun- 
cils 
Thunder  "  Anathema,"  friend,  at  you  ; 

Sliould  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right. 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you 
welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight ; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of 

town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  carelcss-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You  '11  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine  : 


For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand. 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 
And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep. 
And    on    thro'    zones  of  light  and 
shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep. 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin  ; 
Dispute    the    claims,    arrange    the 
chances ; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood; 
Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  mat- 
ters. 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God  ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store. 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor  ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come:  the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 

But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has 
blossom'd, 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet, 
Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here. 
For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear  ; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 
January,  1854. 


WILL. 

O  WEi.L  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  ! 

He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long ; 

He  suffers,  but  hecannot  suffer  wrong  : 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's 
random  mock. 

Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  con- 
found. 

Who  seems  a  promonton'  of  rock. 

That,  compass'd  round  with  turbulent 
sound. 

In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging 
shock. 

Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 


336                 THE   CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

2. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with 

3- 
Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

time, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Corrupts  the   strength   of  heaven-de- 

Cannon In  front  of  them 

scended  Will, 

Volley'dand  thunder'd ; 

And  ever  weaker  grows   thro'   acted 

Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

crime, 

Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still  ! 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

He    seems    as    one    whose    footsteps 

halt. 
Tolling  In  Immeasurable  sand, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

4- 

And  o'er  a  weary,  sultry  land, 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare. 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 

Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air, 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous 

Sabring  the  gunners  there, 

hill. 

Charging  an  army,  while 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  In  the  battery-smoke. 

Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke  ; 

Cossack  and  Russian 

Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 

BRIGADE. 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

_  5- 
Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Haifa  league  onward, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Cannon  behind  them 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 

Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

"  Charge  for  the  guns  !  ""he  said  : 

While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

2. 

All  that  was  left  of  them, 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  " 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 

Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

6. 

Some  one  had  blunder'd : 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 

0  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 

Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 

Honor  the  charge  they  made  1 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Noble  six  hunared"! 

ENID. 


237 


IDYLS    OF    THE    KING. 

"  Flos  Regur 


DEDICATION. 

Thesb  to  His  Memory  —  since  he  held 
them  dear, 

Perchance    as    finding    there    uncon- 
sciously 

Some  image  of  himself —  I  dedicate, 

I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears  — 

These  Idyls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 

Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 

"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his 
king ; 

Whose  gfory  was,   redressing  human 
wrong ; 

Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd 
to  it ; 

Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave 
to  her  —  " 

Her  —  over  all  whose  realms  to  their 
last  isle. 

Commingled   with   the   gloom   of  im- 
minent war. 

The   shadow  of  His  loss  moved  like 
eclipse, 

Darkening  the  world.     We  have  lost 
him  :  he  is  gone  : 

We  know  him  now :  all  narrow  jeal- 
ousies 

Are    silent ;   and  we   see   him   as  he 
moved,   " 

How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd, 
wise, 

With  what  sublime  repression  of  him- 
self, 

.-\T)d  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly  ; 

Xnt  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 

Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 
perch 

Of  wing'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage- 
ground 

For  pleasure  ;  but  thro'  all  this  tract 
of  years 

Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless 
life, 


Arthurus." 

Joseph  of  Exeter. 

Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 

throne, 
An^  blackens   every  blot :  for  where 

is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  thaa 

his? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of 

his  sons 
Hope   more   for  these  than  some  in- 
heritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious    for    her    people    and    her 

poor  — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler 

day  — 
Far-sighted    summoner    of  War  and> 

Waste 
To    fruitful    strifes    and    rivalries    of 

peace  — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious 

gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince 

indeed. 
Beyond    all    titles,    and  a  household 

name. 
Hereafter,   thro*  all  times,  Albert  the 

Good. 

Break  not,   O    woman's-heart,    but 

still  endure ; 
Break    not,   for  thou  art  Royal,   b«t 

endure, 
Remembering  all   the  beauty  of  that 

star 
Which  shone  so  close   beside  Thee, 

that  ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and 

left 
The  Crown  of  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 


238 


ENID. 


His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 

Thee, 
The   love  of  all  Thy   people   comfort 

Thee, 
Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side 


ENID. 


The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's 

court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 
Had  married  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child, 
And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of 

Heaven. 
And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
Witii   moon    and   trembling   stars,    so 

loved  Geraint 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day, 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's 

eye. 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a 

state 
Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendor  ;  and  the  Queen 

herself, 
Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service 

done. 
Loved  her,    and   often   with  her   own 

white  hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest. 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 
And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with 

true  heart 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the 

best 
And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 
And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close. 
Long   in  tlieir  common  love  rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But   when   a   rumor   rose   about    the 

Queen, 
Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 
Tho'  yet  tlicre  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet 

was  heard 


The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into 

storm, 
Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ;  and  there 

fell 
A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 
Thro'  that  great  tenderness  to  Guine- 
vere, 
Had  suffer'd,  or  should  suffer  any  taint 
In  nature  :  wherefore  going  to  the  king. 
He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  prince- 
dom lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory. 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 

knights. 
Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,   and   whatever  loathes    a 

law; 
And   therefore,    till   the   king   himself 

should  please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 

his  realm. 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 
And   there  defend  his  marches  ;    and 

the  king 
Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last. 
Allowing  it,  the  Prince  and  Enid  rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to 

the  shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

land ; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was 

wife 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compass'd  her  with  sweet  cbserv- 

ances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,    and 

grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  ling, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt. 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament. 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its  cares. 
And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful   to 

her. 
And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 

met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies. 
Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of 

him 
As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all 

gone. 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 
And  this  she  gather'd  from  the  people's 

eyes  : 


ENID. 


239 


This  too  the  women  who  attired  her 
head, 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  bound- 
less love, 

Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden'd  her  the 
more  ; 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell 
Geraint, 

But  couid  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy; 

While  he  thatwatch'd  her  sadden,  was 
the  more 

Suspicious  thit  her  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a  summer 

mom 
(They  sleeping  each  by  other )  the  new 

sun 
Beat   thro'   the  blindless  casement  of 

the  room. 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his 

dreams ; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside, 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his 

throat. 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast, 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle 

sloped. 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running    too    vehemently    to    break 

upon  it. 
And   P2nid  woke   and  sat  beside   the 

couch, 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  her- 
self. 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he? 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's 

talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she  said: 

"  O    noble    breast   and   all-puissant 

arms. 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that 

men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is 

gone  ? 
I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not  speak 
And  toll  him  what   I  think  and  what 

they  say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger 

here  ; 
I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Farlieverhad  I'gird  his  harness  on  him, 


And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand 
by, 

And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking 

great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  llie  darlc  earth, 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice. 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear 

arms. 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in 

his  eyes. 
Than  that   my   lord    thro'    me  should 

suffer  shame. 
Am  I  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  bv. 
And  see  my  dear  lewd  wounded  in  the 

strife. 
Or  may  be   pierced   to   death   before 

mine  eyes. 
And  yet  not'  dare  to  tell  him  what  I 

think. 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his 

force 
Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy? 
O  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife." 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke. 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made 

her  weep 
True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 

breast. 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great 

mischance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later 

words. 
And  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a  true 

wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "In  spite  of  all 

my  care. 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my 

pains. 
She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and   I  see 

her 
Weeping     for    some    gay    knight     in 

Arthur's  hall." 
Then   tho'   he   loved  and  reverenced 

her  too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul 

act. 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted 

the  pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  faco 

of  her 
Whom    he    loves    most,    lonely    and 

miserable. 


240 


ENID. 


At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out 

of  bed, 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake 

and  cried, 
"  ]\Iy  charger  and  her  palfrey,"  then  to 

her, 
'  I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness ; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to 

win, 
I  have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would 

wish. 
And    you,     put    on    your  worst   and 

meanest  dress 
And  ride  with  me."     And  Enid  ask'd, 

amazed, 
"  If  Enid  errs,  let  fTnid  learn  her  fault." 
But  he,  '■'  I  charge  you,  ask  not,  but 

obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil. 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet, 
Wherein   she   kept   them   folded  rev- 
erently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between 

the  folds, 
She   took   them,   and   array'd  herself 

therein. 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it, 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 
And  all  his  journev  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 

court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  be- 
fore 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall. 
Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a 

hart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white. 
First  seen  that  day :  these  things  he 

told  the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let 

blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 

mom. 
And   when   the   Queen  petition'd  for 

his  leave 
I'o  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 

gone. 


But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  mom, 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming 

of  her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt ; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with 

her. 
Took    horse,    and    forded    Usk,    and 

gain'd  the  wood  ; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds  ;  but  heard 

instead 
A  sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince 

Geraint, 
Late   also,   wearing  neither    hunting- 

-dress 
Nor    weapon,    save    a    golden-hilted 

brand, 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shallow 

ford 
Behind  them,  and  so  gallop' d  up  the 

knoll. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 
There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest 

gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop'd 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and 

she. 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhofid   and   queenhood,    an- 
swer'd  him  : 
"  Late,    late.    Sir  Prince,"   she  said, 

"later  than  we  !  " 
"  Yea,    noble   Queen,"    he   answer'd, 

"and  so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the 

hunt, 
Not  join  it."     "Therefore  wait  with 

me,"  she  said  ; 
"For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere, 
There   is  good   chance  that   we  shall 

hear  the  hounds : 
Here   often   they  break  covert  at  our 

feet." 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  distant 

hunt, 
And  chiffly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  mouth, 

there  rode 
Full    slowly  by  a  knight,   lady,   and 

dwarf; 


ENID. 


Vhereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,    and 

the  knight 
Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful 

face, 
Imperious,    and    of  haughtiest  Hnea- 

ments. 
And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 
In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name, 

and  sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf; 
Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable. 
And  doubling  all  his  master's  vice  of 

pride. 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should 

not  know. 
"Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,"  she 

said. 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shalt  not," 

cried  the  dwarf; 
"Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

of  him  "  ; 
And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward 

the  knight. 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 

return'd 
Indignant   to   the    Queen ;    at   which 

Geraint 
Exclaiming,    "  Surely  I  will  learn  the 

name," 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd 

it  of  him. 
Who  answer'd   as  before  ;  and  when 

the  Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward 

the  knight. 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut 

his  cheek. 
The   Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the 

scarf. 
Dyeing   it :  and   his  quick,  instinctive 

hand 
Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him  : 
But   he,    from   his  exceeding   manful- 

ness 
And  pure  nobility  of  temperament. 
Wroth   to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm, 

refrain'd 
From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning 

said: 

"  I    will    avenge   this  insult,   noble 
.    Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  your- 
self : 

16 


And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  theii 
earths  : 

For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 

To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come 
at,  arms 

On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ;  and,  being 
found. 

Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break 
his  pride, 

And  on  the  tliird  day  will  again  be  here. 

So  that  1  be  not  fall'n  in  tight.  Fare- 
well." 

"  Farewell,   fair   Prince,"    answer'd 

the  stately  Queen. 
"Be  prosperous  in  tiiis  journey,  as  in 

ail ; 
And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that 

you  love. 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first 

you  love : 
But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your 

bride. 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughterof  a  king. 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the 

hed'^e. 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 

sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking 

that  he  heard 
The  noble  h  xrt  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  do^vns,  thro'  many  a  grassy 

glade 
And  valley,  with  fixt  eye  following  the 

three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of 

wood. 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge. 
And    show'd   themselves  against   the 

sky,  and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  under- 
neath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  of  which, 
Wiiite  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress 

ro>e  ; 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay, 
Beyond  a  bridge  that  spann'd  a  dry 

ravine  : 
And  out  of  to  vn  and  valley  came  a  noise 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 


ENID. 


Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 
three. 

And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the 
walls. 

"  So,"  thought  Geraint,  "  I  have 
track'd  him  to  his  earth." 

And  down  the  long  street  riding  wea- 
rily, 

Found  every  hostel  full,  and  every- 
where 

Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot 
hiss 

And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who 
scour'd 

His  master's  armor ;  and  of  such  a 
one 

He  ask'd,  "  What  means  the  tumult  in 
the  town? " 

Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  "  The 
sparrow-hawk ! " 

Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient 
churl, 

Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping 
beam, 

Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of 
corn, 

Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the 
hubbub  here  ? 

Who  answer'd  gruffly,  "  Ugh  !  the 
sparrow-hawk." 

Then  riding  further  past  an  armorer's. 

Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bow'd 
above  his  work. 

Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee, 

He  put  the  selfsame  query,  but  the 
man 

Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him, 
said: 

"  Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  sparrow- 
hawk 

Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners."' 

Whereat  Geraint  flash'd  into  sudden 
spleen  : 

"  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow- 
hawk  ! 

Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing'd  nothings 
peck  him  dead  ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world  !  What  is  it 
to  me  ? 

O  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all, 


Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  ! 

Speak,  if  you  be  not  like  the  rest, 
hawk- mad. 

Where  can  I  gel  me  harborage  for  the 
night  ? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my  en- 
emy?    Speak  ! " 

At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks. 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 
hand 

And  answer'd,  "  Pardon  me,  O  stran- 
ger knight ; 

We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow 
morn. 

And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the 
work. 

Arms  ?  truth  !  I  know  not :  all  are 
wanted  here. 

Harborage?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know 
not,  save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol's,  o'er  the 
bridge 

Yonder."  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work 
again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful 
yet, 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry 
ravine. 

There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnificence, 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and 
said  : 

"  Whither,  fair  son  ?  "  to  whom  Geraint 
replied, 

"  O  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the 
night." 

Then  Yniol,  "  Enter  therefore  and  par- 
take 

The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 

Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  open- 
door'd." 

"Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied 
Geraint ; 

"  So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  sparrow- 
hawks 

For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 

With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours' 
fast." 

Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary- 
headed  Earl, 


ENID. 


243 


And  answer  d,  "  Graver  cause  than 
yours  is  mine 

To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  spar- 
row-hawk : 

But  in,  go  in  ;  for,  save  yourself  desire  it, 

We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in 
jest." 

Then  rode   Geraint  into  the  castle 

court. 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly 

star 
Of  sprouted    thistle    on    the   broken 

stones. 
He  iook'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed 

with  fern  ; 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a 

tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from 

the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding 

flowers : 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent, 

wound 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  i\'y- 

stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  haiiy-fibred 

arms, 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones, 

and  Iook'd 
A  knot,   beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a 

grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle 

court. 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter, 

rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the 

Hall, 
Singing  ;  and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a 

bird. 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 

it  is 
That    sings   so   delicately  clear,   and 

make 
Conjecture   of  the  plumage   and   the 

form  ; 
So   the    sweet  voice   of  Enid   moved 

Geraint  ; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at 

morn 


When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 


Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
" "  '      ■  ^   il  I     "  "     ■ 

green  and  red, 


To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with 


And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a 
friend. 

Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands. 

To  think  or  say,  "  there  is  the  night- 
ingale "  ; 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought 
and  said, 

"  Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  oi:e 
voice  for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang 
was  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid 
sang  : 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and 

lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel   thro'  sunshine, 

storm,  and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 

nor  hate. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with 

smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or 

down  ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 

great. 

"  Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of 

many  lands  ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our 

own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

"  Turn,   turn   thy  wheel  above  the 

staring  crowd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in 

the  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 

nor  hate." 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may 
'earn  the  nest," 

Said  V'niol  ;  "  Enter  quickly."  En- 
tering then. 

Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-falle.i 
stones. 

The  dusky-rafter'd  many  cobweb'd 
Hall, 


2+4 


ENID. 


He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  bro- 
cade ; 

And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil- 
white. 

That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower- 
sheath. 

Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 

Her  daughter.  In  a  moment  thought 
Geraint, 

"  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid 
for  me." 

But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 
Earl  : 

"  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands 
in  the  court ; 

Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  com, 
and  then 

Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 
wine  ; 

And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great." 

He  spake  :  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 

him,  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol 

caught 
His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said 

"  Forbear ! 
Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O 

my  Son, 
Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve 

himself" 
And  reverencing   the   custom   of  the 

house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 
And   after  went   her  way  across   the 

bridge. 
And  reach 'd  the  tewn,  and  while  the 

Prince  and  Earl 
Vet  spoke  together,  came  again  with 

one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel 

bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh 

and  wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make 

them  cheer. 
And    in    her   veil  enfolded,   manchct 

,       bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also 

serve 


For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread 

the  board, 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the 

three. 
And  .'eeing  her  so  sweet  and  service- 
able, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To   stoop   and   kiss   the   tender   little 

thumb. 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it 

down  : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 

veins. 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky 

hall ; 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl : 

"  Fair  Host  and  Earl,  1  pray  your 

courtesy  ; 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me 

of  him. 
His  name?   but  no,  good  faith,  I  will 

not  have  it  : 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  J 

saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  youi 

town. 
White   from  the   mason's  hand,  then 

have  I  sworn 
From  his  own  lips  to  have  it — I  am 

Geraint 
Of  Devon  —  for  this  morning  when  the 

Queen 
Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the 

name, 
His    dwarf,    a    vicious    under-shapen 

thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whiii,  and  she 

return'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen  ;    and   then   I 

swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his 

hold, 
And  fijjht  and  break  his  pride,  and  have 

it  of  him. 
And  all  unarm'd   I   rode,  and  thought 

to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 

are  mad  ; 
They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  theit 

bourg 


"  In  a  moment  thought  Geraint, 
'  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me. 


<  c    c 
'  c   c 


ENID. 


Mi 


For  the  great  wave  tliat  echoes  round 
the  world  : 

They  would  not  hear  me  speak  :  but  if 
you  know 

Where  I  cau  light  on  arms,  or  if  your- 
self 

Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I 
have  sworn 

That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn 
his  name, 

Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the 
Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol :  "  Art  thou     ' 

he  indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name   far-sounded  among 

men 
For  noble  deeds  ?  and  truly  I,  when 

tirst 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge, 
Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by 

your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess'd  you 

one  of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery  ; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard 

me  praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I 

paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to 

hear  ; 
So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of 

wrong : 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 
Of  suitors  as   this  maiden ;    first  Li- 

mours, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 

wine. 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd  ;  and  be 

he  dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  past  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk, 

My  curse,  my  nephew,  —  I  will  not  let 

his  name 
Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it  —  he, 
W'lien    I    th  It    knew   him   fierce   and 

turbulent 
Refused   her  to  him,   then  his  pride 

awoke ; 
And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 

mean. 


He  sovv'd  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 
Affirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold. 
And    in    my    charge,    which    was   not 

render'd  to  him  ; 
Bribed   with  large  promises  the   men 

who  served 
About  my  person,  the  more  easily 
Because    my    means  were   somewhat 

*  broken  into 
Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality  ; 
Raised   my  own  town  against  me  iu 

the  night 
Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my 

house ; 
From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted 

»    me ; 
Built   that   new   fort   to  overawe   my 

friends. 
For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle 

here, 
Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon 

to  death. 
But  th.it  his  pride  too  much  despises 

me: 
And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  my- 
self; 
For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their 

way ; 
And  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used 

my  power : 
Nor  know  1  whether  I  be  very  base 
(Jr  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish  ;  only  this  I  know. 
That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 
I  seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb, 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"  Well  said,  true  heart,"  replied  Ge- 
raint, "  but  arms : 

That  if,  as  I  suppose,  your  nephew 
fi-hts 

In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his 
pride." 

And  Yniol  answer'd  :  "Arms,  indeed, 

but  old 
And    rusty,    old    and    rusty.    Prince 

Geraint, 
Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  asking, 

your.s. 
But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man  tilt, 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there 


lUil 


MJOA 

Rvi  u>io  ihe  u»^vU»w 

Hah 

X  bJ   ^  ^;Sr-  «:;••-» 

.;-.  '..it-.;v\U!\t-l>.r  U'-.twhiiU 

lw*«  .  but  uc\xa  l^i^fci  Aad 

•->«r 

V.rv. 

:  siUs. 

h^r*   svit-w  Vw4t-;?  w?x^!«  *»trT  jculk 

.,   «ua  c\t«  BUI  a  w 

...Ik 


"-.tn         Aitc  v.:  vc   .:w^v  ».«  \iusM  and  C«~ 


-■.>tll»i 


lilt   :-«an.v.  .-i-'v     .■-  v^   ,.^- 


vittii«  4tMil  tw<k  (ik^A.  Jke.!!  itxt  sbae  sk«u»  muv 


ESID. 


And  over  the^e  they  pbced  a  silver  wand 
And  over  ;ha:  a  Z'fA-z-n  5{>arro-*-hiwk. 
Then    Vn;o.s   aephc*,   arier   irumpet 

blown,  ^ 

Spale  to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 
claimed, 
"  Advance  and  take  as  direst  of  the  &ir. 
For  1  these  two  years  post  have  woo  it 

for  thee. 
The  priie  of  beaaty."    Loodly  ^ake 

the  Prince, 
"  Forbear :   there  is  a  worthier,"  and 

the  knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  mocfa 

disdain 
Tom'd,  and  beheld  the  ibar,  and  all 

his  ace 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at 

YuK 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  oryii^ 

out, 
"  Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more ;  and 

thrice 
They  dash'd  together,  and  thrice  they 

brake  then- spears 
Then   each,    dishorsed   and  drawii^ 

lash'd  at  each 
So  often  and  with  such  Mows,  that  all 

the  crowd 
Wonder'd,    and  now  and  then  firom 

distant  walls 
There  came  a  dappii^  as  of  phantom 


So  twice  they  fooght,  and  twice  they 

breath^  and  still 
The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the 


Of  thdr  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd 

their  foroe. 
But   either's   force   was   matdi'd  till 

Vniol's  cry. 
"  Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 

Queen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his 

blade  aloft. 
And  cracJi'd  the  helmet  thro*,  and  Int 

the  bone. 
And  feU'd  him,  and  set  foot  opon  hb 

breast. 
And  said,  "Thy  name?"    To  whom 

the  ^llen  man 
Made  answer,  grcaning,  "  Edym,  son 

of  Nudd: 
Ashamed  am  !  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 


My  pride  is  broken :   men  have  seen 

mvfidL" 
"Then,  Ed^m,  sod  of  Nodd,"  replied 

Geramt,  , 

"These  two  thii^  shalt  thou  do,  or 

else  thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  bdy,  and  thy 

dwari^ 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being 

there. 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insoh  done  the 

Queen, 
And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  tt : 

next. 
Thou  shalt  g^ve  back  their  earldom  to 

thy  kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou 

shalt  die." 
And  Ed>Tn  answer'd,  "These  things 

win  i  do. 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  orerthrown. 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 

pride 
Is  brcAen   down,  for  Enid  sees  my 

fidl!" 
And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's 

court. 
And  there   the    Queen   forgave  him 

easily. 
And  being  young,  he  diai^;ed  himself 

and  grew 
To  hate  the  sin  that  seem'd  so  like  his 

Of  Modred,  Arthur's  nephew,  and  fcD 

at  last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the 
hunlii^-mom 
Made    a   low  splendor  in  the  world, 

and  wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lav 
With  her  &ir  head  in  the  dim-yellow 
light, 

the  dancing  shadows  of  the 


W<Ae  and  bethought  her  ofher  promise 


No   later    than   last    eve    to    Prince 

Geraint  — 
So  bent  he  scem'd  on  going  the  third 

day. 
He  would  not  leave  her,  tin  her  promise 

given  — 


248                                                              ENID. 

To  ride  wnth  him  this  morning  to  the 

That  Ed>Tn's  men  were  on  them,  and 

court, 

they  fled 

And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately- 

With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on, 

Queen, 

Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 
them  bread  : 

And  there   be  wedded  with  all  cere- 

mony. 

And  Ed\ni's  men  had  caught  them  in 

At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress. 

their  flight,  _ 

And   thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd 

And  placed  tli^m  in  this  ruin  ;  and  she 

so  mean. 

wish'd 

For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 

The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  an- 

To what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 

cient  home  ; 

The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to 

Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 

the  dress 

And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she 

She  look'd  on  ere  the  comins;  of  Geraint. 

knew ; 

And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror 

And  last  bethought  her  how  she  u^ed 

grew 

to  watch. 

Of  that   strange   bright   and   dreadful 

Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden 

thing,  a  court. 

carp ; 

All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 

And  one  was  patch'd  and  blurr'd  and 

And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she 

lustreless 

said : 

Among  his  burnish'd  brethren  of  the 

pool : 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 

"This  noble   Prince   who   won  our 

earldom  back. 

Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 

So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire. 

And    the    gay   court,    and  fell  asleep 

Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I  shall  dis- 

again ; 

credit  him  ! 

And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded 

Would   he   could  tarry  with   us  here 

form 

awhile  ! 

Among   her  burnish'd   sisters   of  th^ 

But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince, 

pool  ; 

It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us. 

But  this  w-as  in  the  garden  of  a  king ; 

Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this  third 

And  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  sh*^ 

day, 

knew 

To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 

That  all  was  bright ;    that   all   aboi'* 

Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 

were  birds 

Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger 

Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work' 

lame, 

That  all' the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  tha* 

Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him." 

look'd 

Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it ; 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 

And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  cour* 

All  branch'd  and  flower'd  with  gold. 

went 

a  costly  gift 

In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state  ; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of 

Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the 

night 

go'd 

Before   Jier  birthday,  three  sad  years 

Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol'd  down 

ago. 

the  walks  ; 

That  night  of  fire,  when  Edym  sack'd 

And  while  she  thought  "  they  will  not 

their  house. 

see  me,"  came 

And  scatter'd  all  they  had  to  all   the 

A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guin- 

winds : 

evere, 

For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and 

And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of 

tlie  two 

gold 

Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 

Ran  to  her,  crying,  "  If  we  have  fish  at 

To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a  cry 

all 

ENID. 


249 


Let  them  be  gold  ;  and  charge  the  gar- 
deners r.ow 
To  pick,  the  laded  creature  from  the 

pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized 

on  lier, 
And   Enid   started   waking,   with   lier 

heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream. 
And  lo !   it  was  her  mother  grasping 

her 
To  get  her  well  awake ;   and  in  her 

hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exult- 

ingly  : 

"  See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 

colors  look, 
How  fast  they  hold,  like  colors  of  a 

shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 

wave. 
Why  not?  it  never  yet  was  worn,   I 

trow: 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  you 

know  it." 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at 
first. 

Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 
dream  : 

Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  re- 
joiced. 

And  answer'd,  "Yea,  I  know  it;  your 
good  gift. 

So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 

Your  own  good  gift !  "  "  Yea,  surely," 
said  the  dame, 

"And  gladly  given  again  this  happy 
morn. 

For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yester- 
day, 

Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  every- 
where 

He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 
house 

All  scatter'd  thro'  the  houses  of  the 
town  ; 

And  gave  command  that  all  which  once 
was  ours, 

Should  now  be  ours  again  :  and  yester- 
eve. 


While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with 

your  Prince, 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my 

hand. 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us. 
Because   we   have   our  earldom  back 

again. 
And  yester-eve   I  would  not  tell  vou 

of  it. 
But  kept  it   for  a  sweet   surprise  at 

morn. 
Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise  ? 
For  I  myself  unwilingly  have  worn 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have 

yours. 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 
Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a  goodly 

house. 
With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous 

fare. 
And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and 

seneschal. 
And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 

and  all 
That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a  goodly 

house ; 
But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sim  to 

shade. 
And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel 

need 
Constrain'd  us,  but  a  better  time  has 

come ; 
So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better 

fits 
Our  mended  fortunes  and  a  Prince's 

bride  : 
For  tho'  you  won  the  prize  of  fairest 

fair, 
And  tho'  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest 

fair, 
Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than 

old. 
And  should  some  great  court-lady  say, 

the  Prince 
Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the 

hedge, 
And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the 

court, 
Then  were  you  shamed,  and,  worse, 

might  shame  the  Prince 
To  whom   we   are   beholden ;    but    I 

know. 


aso                                                            ENID. 

When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her 

For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 

best, 

Of  that  good  mother    making    Enid 

That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho' 

gay 

they  sought 

In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 

Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of 

His  princess,    or  indeed    the    stately 

old 

queen, 

That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 

He  answer'd,  "  Earl,  entreat  her   by 

match." 

my  love. 

Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out 

That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded 

of  breath  ; 

silk." 

And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she 

Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went ;  it 

lay; 

fell. 

Then,  as  the  white  and  glittermg  star 

Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  com  : 

of  morn 

For  Enid,  all  abash'd,  she  knew  not 

Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and 

why, 

by 

Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  moth- 

Slips  into  golden  cloud,    the  maiden 

er's  face. 

rose. 

But  silently,  in  all  obedience. 

And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 

Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 

herself, 

Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broid- 

Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful  hand 

er'd  gift, 

and  eye, 

And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit 

Without    a    mirror,    in    the    gorgeous 

again. 

gown  ; 

And  so  descended.      Never  man  re- 

W^ho, after,  tum'd  her  daughter  round, 

joiced 

and  said, 

More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus 

She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so  fair  ; 

attired  ; 

And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 

And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at 

tale. 

her. 

Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 

of  flowers, 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid 

And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassive- 

fall. 

laun, 

But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied  ; 

Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Cssar 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's 

first 

brow. 

Invaded  Britain,  but  we  beat  him  back, 

Her  by  both  hands  he   caught,  and 

As  this  great  prince  invaded  us,  and  we. 

sweetly  said : 

Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 

with  joy. 

"  O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 

And  I   can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to 

grieved 

court, 

At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to 

For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 

her. 

wild  ; 

When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great 

But  Yniol   goes,   and   I  full  oft   shall 

Queen, 

dream 

In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were 

I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now, 

so  sweet. 

Clothed  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among 

Made  promise,  that  whatever  bride   I 

the  gay." 

brought. 

Flerself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun 

But  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced, 

in  Heaven. 

Geraint 

Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd 

Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 

hold, 

and  call'd 

Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate. 

ENID. 


251 


\  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind 

Queen, 
No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your 

Enid  burst 
Sunlike     from    cloud  —  and     likewise 

thought  perhaps. 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would 

bind 
The  two  together ;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other  :  how  should  Enid 

find 
A  nobler  friend  ?    Another  thought  I 

had ; 
I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly. 
That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the 

lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that 

I  was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 
Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be   moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her 

weal ; 
Or  whether  some  false   sense   in  her     j 

own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  bri,'htness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall ; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long 

for  court 
And  all   its  dangerous  glories :  and  I 

thought. 
That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force 

in  her 
Link'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a 

word 
(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast 

aside 
A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer  ;  or  if  not  so  new. 
Vet   therefore    tenfold   dearer   by   the 

power 
( )r  intermitted  custom  ;  then  I  felt 
Tiiat  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and 

flows, 
Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  I 

do  rest, 
A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy. 
That   never  shadow  of  mistrust  can 

cross 
Between  us.    Grant  me  pardon  for  my 

thoughts : 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 
When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your 

costly  gift 


Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  op 

her  knees. 
Who  knows?  another  gift  of  the  high 

God, 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  leani'd  to 

lisp  you  thanks." 

He  spoke  :   the  mother  smiled,  but 

half  in  tears. 
Then  brought  a  mantle  dovsni  and  wrapt 

her  in  it. 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they 

rode  away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere 

had  climb'd 
The  giant  tower,  fi-om  whose  high  crest, 

they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow 

sea ; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale 

of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 

come  ; 
And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 

gates. 
Embraced  her^  with  all  welcome  as  a 

friend. 
And   did   her  honor  as   the  Prince's 

bride. 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like 

the  sun  ; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay, 
Wn  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  liigh 

saint. 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 

And    this    was    on    the  last  year's 

Whitsuntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk. 
Remembering  how  first  lie  came  on  her, 
Diest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it. 
And  all  the  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 
And   all    his  journey   toward   her,    as 

jiimself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  tho 

court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her. 


2Si 


ENID. 


"Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress," 

she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 

O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men. 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble   for  our- 
selves, 
Bv  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  fortrue ; 
Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 

world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 

reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are 
seen  ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing 

forth 
That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got 

to  horse. 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 
ately. 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round 

his  heart. 
Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 

perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  : 
"  Not  at  my  side  !     I  charge  you  ride 

before. 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before  ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife. 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to  me. 
No,  not  a  word  !"  and  Enid  was  aghast; 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three 

paces  on. 
When  crying  out,  "  Effeminate  as  I  am, 
I   will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded 

arms. 
All  shall  be  iron  "  ;  he  loosed  a  mighty 

purse, 
Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward 

the  squire. 
So   the   last   sight   that    Enid   had   of 

home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing,     , 

strown 
With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and     I 

the  squire  j 

Chafing  his   shoulder  :  then  he  cried     j 

again, 
"  To  the  wilds  !  "  and    Enid   leading 

down  the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 

they  past 


The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted 

holds. 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  w-aste  places 

of  the  hern. 
And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 

rode  : 
Round    was    their  pace   at   first,    but 

slacken'd  sc;on  : 
A  stranger  meeting   them  had  surely 

thought. 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so 

pale. 
That  each  had  suffer'd  some  exceeding 

wrong. 
For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 
"  O  I  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon 

her. 
To   ccmpa'^s  her  with   sweet   observ- 
ance-. 
To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 

true  "  — 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his 

heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters 

him. 
And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet 

heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 

wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself. 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and 

so  cold  ; 
Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle 

amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste 

she  fear'd 
In    every  wavering   brake  an   ambus- 
cade. 
Then  thought  again  "  if  there  be  such 

in  me, 
I  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaven, 
If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of 

it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 

was  gone. 
Then   Enid  was  aware   of  three   tall 

knights 
On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a 

rock 
In   shadow,  waiting  for  them,   caitiffs 

all; 


ENID. 


253 


And  heard   one   crying  to  his   fellow, 

"  Look, 
Here  conies  a  laggard  hanging  down 

his  head. 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten 

hound  ; 
Come,  we  will   slay  him  and  will  have 

his  horse 
And  armor,    and  his  damsel  shall   be 

ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  in   her  heart, 

and  said  : 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  I  wil  tell  him  all  their  caititT  talk  ; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 
Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die, 
Thau  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  or 

shame." 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of 

return, 
Met   his  fail  frown  timidly  firm,  and 

said : 
"  My  lord,   I  saw  three  bandits  by  the 

rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them 

boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 

your  horse 
And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be 

theirs." 

He  made  a  wrathful  answer.     "  Did 

I  wish 
Your    warning    or  your  silence?   one 

command 
I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me. 
And  thus   you   kiep   it!     Weil    then, 

look  —  for  now. 
Whether  you  wish  m  -  victory  or  defeat, 
Lo  ig  for  my  life,  or  ha.iger  for  mydaath, 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vjgor  is  not  lost." 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrow- 
ful, 

And  dow;i  upon  him  bare  the  bandit 
three. 

And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince 
Geraint 

Drave  the  lo.ig  spear  a  cubit  thro'  his 
breast 

And  out  beyond ;  and  then  against  his 
brace 


Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken 

on  him 
A  lance  that  splinterd  like  an  icicle. 
Swung  tVom  his  brand  a  windy  buffet 

out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  andstunn'd 

the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a 

man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying 

him, 
Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of 

woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which 

they  wore. 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 

suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied   the    bridle-reins   of  all   the 

three 
Together,    and   said   to   her,    "  Drive 

them  on 
Before  you  "  ;  and  she  diove  them  thro' 

the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer:  ruth  began  to 

work 
Against   his   anger  in   him,   while  he 

watch'd 
The    being   he   loved  best  in  all   the 

world. 
With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on  :  he  fain  had  spoken 

to  her, 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 

wrath 
And  smouider'd  wrong  that  burnt  him 

all  within  ; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 

dead. 
Than  to  cry  "  Halt,"  and  to  her  own 

bright  lace 
Accuse  her  of  thi  least  immodesty  : 
And   thus  to.igue-tioJ,     it   made   him 

wroth  llu  m.).o 
That  siie  could  s;)e.ik    whom  his  own 

ear  hid  heird 
Call  herself  false :  and   suffering  thus 

he  made 
Minutes  an  age  :  but   in  scarce  longer 

time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full  tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 


254 


ENID. 


Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  be- 
hold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep 

wood, 
Before   a    gloom   of  stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 

arm'd, 
Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger   than 

her  lord. 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "  Look, 

a  prize  ! 
Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of 

arms. 
And   all   in   charge   of  whom?  a  girl: 

set  on." 
"Nay,"    said    the    second,     "yonder 

comes  a  knight." 
The  third,   "  A  craven  !  how  he  hangs 

his  head." 
The  giant  answer'd  merrily,  "  Yea,  but 

one? 
Wait  here,   and   when  he  passes  fall 

upon  him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and 
said, 

"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord, 

And  1  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 

My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  be- 
fore. 

And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 

I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good  ; 

How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his 
harm  ? 

Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill 
me  for  it, 

I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said 

to  him 
With  timid  firmness,  "  Have  I  leave 

to  speak  ?  " 
He  said,  "  You  take  it,  speaking,"  and 

she  spoke. 

"  There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in 

the  wood, 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and 

one 
Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they 

say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you 

pass." 


To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer 

back  : 
"  And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  tha 

wo(.)d. 
And    every    man    were    larger-limb'd 

than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon 

me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  rufile  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.     Stand  aside, 
And    if    I    fall,  cleave   to   the    better 

man." 

And   Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the 

event. 
Not  dare   to  watch  the  combat,  only 

breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 

breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down 

upon  him. 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err'd  ;  but 

Geraint's, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd. 
Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet 

home. 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down   his 

enemy  roll'd 
And  there  lay  still ;  as  he  that  tells  the 

tale. 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls 

to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  j-et  the  sapling 

grew : 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.     His  craven 

pair 
Of  comrades,   making  slowlier  at  the 

Prince, 
When    now    they   saw    their  bulwark 

fallen,  stood  ; 
On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 

more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry  ;  for 

as  one, 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain- 
brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 

hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger 

fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to 

hear 


ENID. 


255 


His   voice  in   battle,   and  be  kindled 

by  it, 
And  foamen  scared,  like  that  false  pair 

who  turn'd 
Flyin-;,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Them  selves  had  wrought  on  many  an 

innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd 

the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 

those  dead  wolves 
Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each 

from  eac'i, 
And  bound  tiiem  on  their  horses,  each 

on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,    and   said   to  -her,     "  Drive 

them  on 
Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro' 

the  wood. 

Hi   follow'd   nearer  still:  the   pain 

she  had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the 

wood. 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling 

arms. 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her 

heart : 
And  they   themselves,   like   creatures 

gently  born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,   and  now  so 

long 
By  bandits  groom'd,  prick'd  their  light 

ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  govern- 
ment. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood 

they  past. 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike 

chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing 

in  it : 
And  dosvn  a  rocky  pathway  from  the 

place 
There  came  a  fair-hair'd  youth,  that  in 

his  hand 
Bare    victual    for    the    mowers :    and 

Geraint 


Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale  : 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow 

ground. 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came 

by  him,  said, 
"  Friend,  let  her  eat  ;  the  damsel  is  so 

faint." 
"Yea,  willingly,"    replied  the  youth; 

"  and  you, 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And  only  meet  for  mowers  "  ;  then  set 

down 
His  basket,   and  dismounting  on  the 

sward 
They  let   the   horses    graze,    and   ate 

themselves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately. 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord's  pleasure  ;  but 

Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares. 
And  when    he    found   all  empty,    was 

amazed ; 
And  "  Boy,"  said  he,  "  I   have  eaten 

all,  but  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon  ;  choose 

the  best." 
He.  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
"  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty  fold." 
"You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried 

the  Prince. 
"  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the 

boy, 
"  Not  giierdon  ;  for  myself  can  easily. 
While  Vonr  good  damsel  rests,  return, 

and  fetch 
Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our 

Earl; 
For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his. 
And  I  myself  am  his ;  and  I  will  tell 

him 
How  great  a  man  you  are  :  he  loves  to 

know 
When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territorv  : 
And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here. 
And     serve    you    costlier    than    with 

mowers'  fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "  I  wish  no  bet- 
ter fare  : 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinner- 
less. 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 


2s6 


ENID. 


I    know,    God    knows,    too    much  of 

palaces  ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to 

me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 

night, 
And  stalling;  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us 

know." 

"Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad 
youth,  and  went, 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a  knight, 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd. 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his 

errant  eyes 
Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 

them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt :  his  own 

false  doom. 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never 

cross 
Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he 

sigh'd ; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 

mark'd 
The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless. 
And    watch'd   the   sun   blaze   on   the 

turning  scythe, 
And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 
But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin'd 

hall, 
And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
About   her  hollow  turret,  pluck'd  the 

grass 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's 

edge. 
And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage 

ring. 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  re- 

tum'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 

went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,    "If  you 

will. 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to 

which 
She   answer'd,  "Thanks,    my   lord"; 

the  two  remain'd 


Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and 

mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of 

birth, 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 

glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the 

street. 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing, 

burst 
Their  drowse  ;  and  either  started  while 

the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward 

to  the  wall, 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers, 
P^emininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale. 
Her  suitor  in  o'd  years  before  Geraint, 
Enter'd,   the  wild  lord   of  the  place, 

Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness, 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily, 
In   the   mid-warmth   of  welcome  and 

graspt  hand, 
Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
And   knew   her   sitting   sad   and  soli- 

tarj'. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly 

cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sump- 
tuous'y 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call   in   what   men    soever    were    his 

friends. 
And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their 

earl ; 
"  And  care  not  for  the  cost ;  the  cost  is 

mine." 

And   wine   and  food  were  brought, 

and  Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and 

told 
Free    tales,   and  took  the  word  and 

play'd  upon  it. 
And  made  h  of  two  colors  ;  for  his  talk. 
When    wine     and     free     companions 

kindled  him, 
Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  \\.  e  a 

gem 
Of   fifty    facets;  thus   he   moved   the 

Prince 


EXID. 


257 


To  iaugliter  and  his  comrades  to  ap- 
plause. 
Then,   when   the    Prince   was   merry, 

ask'd  Limours, 
"Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room, 

and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits 

apart 
And    seems    so    lonely?"    "My   free 

leave,"  he  said  ; 
"  Get  her  to  speak  :  she  does  not  speak 

to  me." 
Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his 

feet, 
Like  hin)  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 

may  fail, 
Crost  and   came  near,  lifted  adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  turn'd  me 

wild  — 
What  chance  is  this  ?   how  is  it  I  see 

you  here  ? 
You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 

power. 
Yet  fear  me  not :   I  call  mine  own  self 

wild. 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilder- 
ness. 
I  thought,  but  that  your  father  came 

between, 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a  little  happier :  let  me  know 

it: 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half- 
lost? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you 

are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,   I  see  it  with 

joy— 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him. 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 

maid, 
To  serve  you  —  does  he  love  you  as  of 

old? 
For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 

they  love, 

17 


They  would  not  make  them  laughable 

in  all  eyes. 
Not  while  they  ioved  them  ;  and  your 

wretched  dress, 
A   wretched    insult   on    you,   dumbly 

sjjeaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no 

more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now : 
A  common  chance  —  right  well  1  know 

it  — pall'd  — 
For  I  know  men  :  nor  will  you  win  him 

back. 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never 

returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old  ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of 

old: 
Good,  speak  the  word :  my  followers 

ring  him  round  : 
He  sits  unarm'd  ;   1  hold  a  finger  up ; 
They  understand  :   no  ;  I  do  not  mean 

blood  : 
Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  what  I 

say: 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat, 
No  stronger  than  a  wall :  there  is  the 

keep; 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more  ;  speak  but 

the  word  : 
Or  speak  it  not ;  but  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 
The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  ihe  power  I  have. 
O  pardon  me  !    the   madness  of  that 

hour, 
When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves 

me  yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 

voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it. 
Made  his  eye  mois.t ;  but  Enid  fear'd 

his  eyes. 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 

the  fe.nst ; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women 

use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and 

said: 

"  Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  forrac 
years, 


258 


ENID. 


And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 
morn, 

And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  vio- 
lence ; 

Leave  me  to-night :  I  am  \vea17  to  the 
death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish'd  plume 

Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all- 
amorous  Earl, 

And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud 
good-night. 

He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his 
men. 

How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but 
him, 

Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her 
lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Ge- 
raint. 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 
And  that  she  now  perforce  must  vio- 
late it, 
Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 

she  held 
He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 
To   wake    him,    but    hung   o'er  him, 

wholly  jileased 
To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight. 
And  near  him  breathing  low  and  equal- 

Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly, 
heap'd 

The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place. 

Ail  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need  ; 

Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  over- 
toil'd 

By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  ever- 
more 

Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn, 
and  then 

Went  slipping  dovm  horrible  preci- 
pices, 

And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs 
awoke ; 

Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl 
at  the  door, 

With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 

Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summon- 
ing her ; 

Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to 
the  light. 


As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy 

world, 
And  glimmer'd  on  his   armor  in  the 

room. 
And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 
But  touch'd  it  unawares  :  jangling,  the 

casque 
Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at 

her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 

given. 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had 

said, 
Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 

not ; 
Nor  left  iintold  the  craft  herself  had 

used; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet. 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  w  ords,  and 

seem'd 
So  justified  by  that  necessity. 
That  tho'  he  thought  "was  it  for  him 

she  wept 
In  Devon?"   he  but  gave  a  wrathful 

groan. 
Saying  "your  sweet  faces  make  good 

fellows  fools 
And  traitors.     Call  the  host  and  bid 

him  bring 
Charger  and  palfrey."     So  she  glided 

out 
Among   the   heavy  breathings  of  the 

house. 
And  like   a  household   Spirit  at  the 

walls 
Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and 

return'd : 
Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all 

unask'd, 
In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire  ; 
Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host 

and  cried, 
"Thy  reckoning,  friend?"  and  ere  he 

learnt  it,  "  Take 
Five  horses  and  their  armors " ;   and 

the  host. 
Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
"My  lord,   1   scarce   have  spent  the 

worth  of  one  !  " 
"You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said 

the  Prince, 
And    then    to  Enid,    "  Foi-ward  1   and 

to-day 
I  charge  you,  Enid,  mere  especially, 


ENID. 


*59 


What  thing  soever  you  may  hear,  or 

see. 
Or  fancy  (the'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
To  charge  you)  that  you  speak  not  but 

obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,  "  Yea,  my  lord, 

I  know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey ;  but  riding 

first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not 

hear, 
I   see  the  danger  which  you  cannot 

see  : 
Then   not   to  give  you  warning,  that 

seems  hard  ; 
Almost  beyond  me  :  yet  I  would  obey." 

"Yea  so,"  said  he,  "do  it:  be  not 

too  wise  ; 
Seeing  that  you  are  wedded  to  a  man. 
Not  quite  mismated  with  a  yawning 

clown. 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head 

and  yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far. 
And  ears   to   hear  you  even    in    his 

dreams." 

With  that  he  tum'd  and  look'd  as 
keenly  at  her 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil ; 

And  that  within  her,  which  a  wanton 
fo  1, 

Or  hasty  judger  would  have  call'd  her 
guilt. 

Made  her  cheek  bum  and  either  eyelid 
fall. 

And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satis- 
fied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beat- 
en broad, 

Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 

To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 

Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'd 
the  Hull, 

Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 

Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she 
saw  him  ride 

More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yester- 
mom, 

Xt  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful ;  till 
Geraint 


Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  sliouid 

say 
"You   watch   me,"   saddcn'd   all   her 

heart  again. 
But  while   the   sun   yet  beat  a  dewy 

blade. 
The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round 

she  saw 
Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker 

in  it. 
Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest. 
And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he 

rode 
As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she 

held 
Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 
At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy,        • 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 
Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning, 

stood. 
And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 
Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder- 
cloud 
Whose  sidrts  are  loosen'd  by  the  break- 
ing storm, 
Half  ridden  oflf  with  by  the  thing  he 

rode. 
And  all  in  passion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 
Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with 

him,  and  bore 
Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 

beyond 
The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd 

or  dead. 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow'd 

him, 
And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  be- 
hind. 
But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They   vinish'd   panic-stricken,   like  a 

shoal 
Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dikes  at  Camelot 
Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on 

the  sand, 
But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun. 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt    the    cressy    islets    white    in 

flower  ; 
So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  tlie 

man, 


,"6o                                                            ENID. 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the 

Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass, 

Earl, 

The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way ; 

horse  fell. 

So   vanish   friendships   only   made   in 

wine. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his 
fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pa'e 

Then  like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled 

Gcraint, 

Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of 

Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that 

his  arms. 

fell 

Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue 

Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly 

eye 

fly, 

Moisten,    till  she   had  lighted  on  his 

Mixt   with   the   flyers.      "  Horse   and 

wound, 

man,"  he  said, 

*   And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 

All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest 

Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blister- 

friends ! 

ing  sun, 

Not  a  hoof  left :   and  I  methinks  till 

And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her 

now 

dear  lord's  life. 

•     Was   honest — paid  with   horses  and 

Then    after   all   was   done   that  hand 

with  arms ; 

could  do. 

I  cannot  steal  or  phmder,  no  nor  beg  : 

She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 

And  so  what  say  you,  shall  we  strip 

Upon  her,  and   she  wept   beside   the 

him  there 

way. 

Your  lover?    has   your  palfrey  heart 

enough 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded 

To  bear  his  armor?   shall  we  fast,  or 

her, 

dine  ? 

For  in  that  realni  of  lawless  turbulence, 

No  ?  —  then  do  you,  being  right  honest, 

A   woman  weeping   for   her  murder'd 

pray 

mate 

That  we  mav  meet  the  horsemen  of 

Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a  summer 

Earl  D'oorm, 

shower : 

I  too  would  still  be  honest."    Thus  he 

One   took   him   for   a   victim   of  EaJ-1 

said  : 

Doorm, 

And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins. 

Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on 

And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led 

him  : 

the  way. 

Another  hurrying  past,  a  man-at-arms, 

Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl  • 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 

Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse 

Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it 

song, 

not, 

He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless 

But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the 

eyes  : 

loss 

Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm       / 

So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to 

Before  an  ever-tancied  arrow,  made 

death ; 

The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in 

So   fared   it  with  Geraint,  who  being 

his  fear ; 

prick'd 

At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted 

In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 

heel, 

Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly. 

And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was 

And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle' wife 

lost, 

What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  it  him- 

While the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 

self. 

like  a  man. 

Till  his  eve  darken'd  and  his  helmet 

wagg'd  ; 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge 

And  at  a  sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 

Earl  Doorm, 

EXID. 


261 


Broad  faced  wuh  under-fringe  of  russet 

beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey, 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up ; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a 

ship. 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "  What,  is 

he  dead?" 
"  No,  no,  not  dead  !  "  she  answer'd  in 

all  haste. 
"  Wou'd  some  of  your  kind  people  take 

him  up. 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel 

sun : 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not 

dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm  :  "  Well,  if 

he  be  not  dead. 
Why  wail  you  for  him  thus?  you  seem 

a  child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a  fool ; 
Your  wailing  will   not   quicken   him : 

dead  or  not, 
You  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  —  some  of 

you, 
Here,   take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to 

our  hall : 
An  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 

band ; 
And  if  he   die,  why  earth  has  earth 

enough 
To  hide  him.     See  ye  take  the  charger 

too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  away. 
But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who 

advanced, 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his 

good  bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village 

boys 
Who  love  to  ve.x  him  eating,  and  he 

fears 
To  lose  his   bone,   and  lays  his  foot 

upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling :  so  the  ruffians 

growl'd. 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man. 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morn- 
ing's raid ; 
Yet    raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter- 
bier. 


Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays 

out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded  ;  laid 

him  on  it 
All   in   the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and 

took 
And  bore  him  to  the   naked  hall  of 

Doorm, 
( His    gentle    charger    following    him 

unlcd) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he 

lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall. 
And  then  departed,   hot   in   haste   to 

join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as 

before. 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the 

dead  man. 
And   their  own  Earl,   and   their  o\ra 

souls,  and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her  :  she 

was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord, 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his 

head, 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling 

to  him. 
And  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his 

swoon. 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping 

his  head. 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling 

to  him  ; 
And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his 

tace ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps 

for  me  "  : 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself 

as  de.ad, 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  utter- 
most. 
And  say  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps 

for  me." 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  retum'd 
The  huge  E.irl  Doorm  with  plunder  to 

the  hall. 
His  lusty  spearmen  follow'd  him  with 

noise  : 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  thijij* 

that  rang 


362 


ENID. 


Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance 

aside, 
And  dotfd  his  helm :  and  then  there 

flutter'd  in, 
Half-bold,   half-frighted,  with  dilated 

eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many  hues. 
And  mingled  with  the  spearmen :  and 

Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against 

the  board. 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed 

his  spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and 

quarter  beeves, 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam 

of  flesh : 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down 

at  once. 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall. 
Feeding   like    horses  when   you   hear 

them  feed ; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself. 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless 

tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he 

would. 
He  roll'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and 

found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she 

wept ; 
And  out   of  her   there  came  a  power 

upon  him : 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  "Eat ! 
I  never  yet  beiield  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see 

you  weep. 
Eat !     Look  yourself.     Good  luck  had 

your  good  man, 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep 

for  me  ? 
Sweet  lady,   never  since   I  fust  drew 

breath. 
Have  1  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your 

cheek, 
There   is  not  one  among  my  gentle- 
women 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper   for  a 

glove. 
But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled. 
And  I  will  do  the  tiling   1  have  not 

done. 


For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with 

me,  girl. 
And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 

nest, 
And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all 

fields. 
For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke  :  the  brawny  spearman  let 
his  cheek 

Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd  piece,  and 
turning  stared  ; 

While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  ser- 
pent long  had  drawn 

Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the 
wither'd  leaf 

And  makes  it  earth,  hiss'd  each  at 
other's  ear 

What  shall  not  be  recorded — women 
they. 

Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gra- 
cious things, 

But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 
best. 

Yea,  would  have  helped  him  to  it :  and 
all  at  once 

They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought 
of  them. 

But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek 
head  yet 

Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  cour- 
tesy, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her 
'    speak. 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  gra- 
ciously. 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him, 

adding,  "  Yea, 
Eat   and   be  glad,  for  I  account  you 
mine." 
She  answer'd  meekly,  "  Hdw  should 
I  be  glad 
Henceforth   in   all  the   world  at  any- 
thing. 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me?" 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon 
her  talk. 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And   sickly  nothing  ;  suddenly  seized 
on  her, 


ENID. 


263 


And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 

board, 
And  tlirust  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 

"Eat." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vext,   "  I  will 

not  eat. 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 
And  eat  with  me."     "Drink,  then," 

he  answer'd.     "  Here  !" 
(  And  fill'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held 

it  to  her, ) 
"  Lo  !  I,  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight, 

or  hot, 
God's  curse,  with  anger  —  often  I  my- 
self. 
Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  can 

eat : 
Drink    therefore,  and   the    wine    will 

change  your  will." 

"  Not  so,"  she  cried,  "by  Heaven, 

I  will  not  drink, 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  it. 
And  drink  with  me  ;  and  if  he  rise  no 

more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 

At  this  he  tum'd  all  red  and  paced 

his  hall. 
Now    gnaw'd    his    under,    now  his 
upper  lip. 

And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at 
last: 

"  Girl,  for  I  see  you  scorn  my  cour- 
tesies. 

Take  warning :  yonder  man  is  surely 
dead  ; 

And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 

Not  eat  nor  drink  ?  And  wherefore  wail 
for  one. 

Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 
scorn 

By  dressing  it  in  rags?     Amazed  am  I, 

Beholding   how   you  butt  against  my 
wish, 

That  I  forbear  you  thus  :  cross  me  no 
more. 

At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor 
gown, 

This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman's 
weed : 

I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully: 


For  see  you  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 

How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of 
one, 

Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beau- 
tifully ! 

Rise  therefore  ;  robe  yourself  in  this  : 
obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentle- 
women 
Display'd   a   splendid   silk   of  foreign 

loom. 
Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely 

blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down 

the  front 
With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops 

of  dew, 
When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to 

the  hill, 
And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the 

day 
Strike  where  it  clung  :  so  thickly  shone 

the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be 
moved 

Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of 
power, 

With  life-long  injuries  burning  una- 
venged. 

And  now  "their  hour  has  come  ;  and 
Enid  said  : 

"  In  this  poor  gown   my  dear  lord 

found  me  first. 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's 

hall : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to 

court. 
And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like 

the  sun  : 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe 

myself. 
When   now  we  rode   upon   this  &tal 

quest 
Of   honor,    where    no    honor  can   be 

gain'd  : 
And   this   poor  gown   I  will  not  cast 

as^de 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And   bid   me   cast   it.      I    have   griefs 

enough  : 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  b«  : 


264 


ENID. 


I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him  : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentle- 
ness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and 

down  his  hall. 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 

teeth  ; 
Last,  coming  up   quite  close,  and   in 

his  mood 
Crying,  "  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail. 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with 

you ; 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat 

hand, 
However   lightly,    smote    her   on    the 

cheek. 
Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness. 
And  since  she  thought,  "  he  had  not 

dared  to  do  it. 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was 

dead," 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter 

cry. 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap. 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro' 

the  wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at 
his  sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield), 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a 

sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like 

a  ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll'd  on  the 

floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  count- 
ed dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 
Rose   when   they   saw  the   dead  man 

rise,  and  fled 
Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said  : 

"  Enid,  I  have  used  you  worse  than 
.   that  dead  man  ; 
Done  you  more  wrong :  we  both  have 

undergone 
That  trouble  wluch  has  left  me  thrice 

your  own  : 
Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  than 
doubt. 


And  here  I  lay  this  penance  on  mysell. 
Not,   tho'  mine   own  ears  h§ard   you 

yester-morn  — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard 

you  say, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true 

wife  : 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in 

it: 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 

doubt." 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender 

word, 
She   felt   so  blunt  and   stupid  at  the 

heart : 
She  only  prayed  him,  "  Fly,  they  will 

return 
And   slay   you ;    fly,    your   charger   is 

without, 
My  palfrey  lost."    "Then,  Enid,  shall 

you  ride 
Behind  me."    "Yea,"  said  Enid,  "let 

us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 

horse. 
Who  now  no  more   a  vassal  to  th^ 

thief. 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawfu. 

fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came, 

and  stoop'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair  : 

and  she 
Kiss'd  the  white  star  upon  his  noble 

front. 
Glad    also ;    then    Geraint    upon    the 

horse 
Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on 

his  foot 
She  set  her  own  and  climb'd  ;  he  turn'd 

his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  she  cast 

her  arms 
About   him,    and   at   once    they   rode 

away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Para- 
dise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  peril 
cus  liour 


ENID. 


26s 


Put  hand   to  hand  beneath  her  hus- 
band's heart, 
And  felt  him  hers  again  :  she  did  not 

weep, 
But  o'er  lier  meek  eyes  came  a  happy 

mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden 

green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  : 
Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue 

eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Right  in   the  gateway  of  the   bandit 

hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid 

nis  lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of 

blood. 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,  "Slay  not  a 

dead  man  !  " 
"  The  voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight ; 

but  she. 
Beholding  it  was  Edym  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so   much  the  more,  and 

shriek'd  again, 
"  O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 

life." 
And   Edym   moving   frankly  for\vard 

spake  : 
"  My  lord  Geraint,    I  greet  you  with 

all  love  ; 
I   took   you    for  a  bandit  knight   of 

Doorm ; 
And  fear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon 

him, 
Who  love  you.  Prince,  with  something 

of  the  love 
Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that 

chastens  us. 
F'or  once,  when  1  was  up  so  high  in 

pride 
Tliat  I  was  half  way  down  the  slope  to 

Hcil, 
By  overthrowing   me    you  threw  me 

higher. 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
And  since   I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I 

myself 
Was    half   a    bandit    in    my    lawless 

hour. 


I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 

Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding 

him 
Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all   his 

powers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 

King." 

"  He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  Kin  » 

of  Kings," 
Cried   the  wan  Prince;    "and  lo  the 

powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter'd,'"  and  he  pointed  to  th= 

field. 
Where,   huddled  here   and  there    on 

mound  and  knoll, 
Were   men   and  women   staring    and 

aghast. 
While   some   yet  fled;    and  then  he 

plainlier  told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his 

hall. 
But  when  the  knight  besought  him, 

"  Follow  me. 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's 

own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced ;  you  surely 

have  endured 
Strange    chances    here    alone";    that 

other  flush'd, 
And    hung   his  head,   and   halted   in 

reply. 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 

King, 
And    after    madness    acted     question 

ask'd : 
Till  Edym  crying,  "If  you  will  not  gf> 
To  Artiiur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to 

you," 
"  Enough,"  he  said,  "  I  follow,"  and 

they  went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears. 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the 

field. 
And  one  from  Ed>Tn.     Every  now  anrt 

then. 
When  Ed\Tn  rein'd  his  charger  at  hei 

side. 
She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  Iiollow  land, 
From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men 

may  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.     He,  perceiving, 

said  - 


266 


ENID. 


"  Fair  and  clear  cousin,  you  that  most 

had  cause 
To  fear  me,    fear    no    longer,    I    am 

changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause 

to  make 
My  nature's   prideful   sparkle   in  the 

blood 
Break   into   furious   flame ;   being   re- 
pulsed 
By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and 

wrought 
Until  I  overtum'd  him ;  then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my 

heart) 
My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  para- 
mour; 
Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair, 
And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism. 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I  believed  my- 
self ; 
Unconquerable,  for  I  waswellnigh  mad : 
And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  m  these 

jousts, 
I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized 

yourself 
I   lived   in    hope  that  some  time  you 

would  come 
To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 

you  loved ; 
And    there,    poor    cousin,   with    your 

meek  blue  eyes, 
The   truest   eyes   that   ever  answer'd 

heaven. 
Behold  me  overturn  and  trample   on 

him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  orpray'd 

to  me, 
I  should  not  less  have  kill'd  him.    And 

you  came,  — 
But  once  you  came,  —  and  with  your 

own  true  eyes 
Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as 

one 
Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  over- 
throw 
My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three 

years  old. 
And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me 

life. 
There  was  I  broken  down  ;  there  was 

I  saved  : 
Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating 

the  life 


He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 
And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid 

upon  me 
Was  but   to  rest    awhile   within   her 

court ; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new- 
caged. 
And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf, 
Because  1  knew  my  deeds  were  known, 

I  found. 
Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 
Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence. 
Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a 

grace 
Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 
To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life. 
And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolf's 

indeed : 
And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 

saint. 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory. 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentle- 
ness, 
Wliich,  when  it  weds  with  manhood, 

makes  a  man. 
And  you  were   often  there  about  the 

Queen, 
But  saw  me  not,  or  mark'd  not  if  you 

saw; 
Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with 

you. 
But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I  was  changed; 
And  fear  not,  cousin;   I  am  changed 

indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed. 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend 

or  foe,  _ 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have 

done  them  ill. 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  camp  the 

King  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  behold- 
ing her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a 

word. 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he 

held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  retum'd, 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from 

horse, 
And    kiss'd    her    with    all    pureness, 

brother-like. 


ENID. 


267 


And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her, 
And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw 

her 
Pass  into  it,  tum'd  to  the  Prince,  and 

said : 

"  Prince,  when  of  late  you  pray' d  me 

for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there 

defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some 

reproof. 
As  one  that  let  foul   wrong    stagnate 

and  be. 
By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien 

eyes, 
And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated 

hands. 
Not  used  mine  own  :  but  now  behold 

me  come 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 

my  realm, 
With   Edym  and  with  others :   have 

you  look'd 
At  Edyrn?  have  you  seen  how  nobly 

changed  ? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 
His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 

changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  re- 
pents : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 

right. 
Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 

quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him. 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 

afresh. 
Edym  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 
I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table 

Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every 

way 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 
Smest  and  most  obedient  :  and  indeed 
This  work   of  Edym    wrought    upon 

himself 
.After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  won- 
derful 
Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking 

his  \\i^. 


My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him, 
Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a 

realm 
Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by 

one, 
And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the 

death." 

So  spake  the  King  ;  low  bow'd  ihe 

Prince,  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  won- 
derful. 
And  past  to  Enid's  tent ;  and  thither 

came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his 

hurt ; 
And  Enid  tended  on  him  there  ;  and 

there 
Her  con.stant  motion  round  him,  and 

the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over 

him, 
Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  b'ood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love. 
As   the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala 

lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.     So  past  the 

days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his 
hurt, 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and 
cast  his  eyes 

On  whom  his  father  Uther  left  in  charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King: 

He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting ; 
and  as  now 

Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berk- 
shire hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  here- 
tofore. 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

(Jr  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd 
at  wrong, 

Aid  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger  race 

With  liearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a 
thousand  men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  every- 
where 

Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law. 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and 
cleansed  tJie   land. 


268                                                      VI  VIE  17. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again, 

She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  fn 

they  past 

thought 

Witli  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 

There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 

was named. 

braced  lier  friend, 

For  once,    when   Arthur  walking   all 

And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 

alone, 

And    tho'    Geraint    could  never  take 

Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 

again 

Had  met   her,  Vivien,  being  greeted 

That  comfort  from  their  converse  which 

fair, 

he  took 

Would    fain   have   wrought   upon   his 

Before   the    Queen's    fair    name    was 

cloudy  mood 

breathed  upon, 

With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken 

He  rested  well  content  that  all  was  well. 

voice. 

Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they 

And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 

rode, 

With   dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who 

And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the 

prized  him  more 

shores 

Than  who  should  prize  him  most ;  at 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

which  the  King 

land. 

Had  gazed  upon  her'blankly  and  gone 

And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the 

by: 

King 

But  one  hadwatch'd,  and  had  not  held 

So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 

his  peace  : 

Applauded,   and   the   spiteful  whisper 

It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 

died  : 

That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blame- 

And being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase. 

less  King. 

And  vict«  ir  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 

And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 

They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and 

Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those 

man  of  men. 

times. 

But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 

Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their 

Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  peojile  named 

arts, 

Enid  the  Good  ;  and  in  their  halls  arose 

Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships, 

The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 

and  halls, 

Of  times  to  be  ;  nor  did  he  doubt  her 

Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry 

more 

heavens ; 

But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 

The  people  called  him  Wizard  ;  whom 

A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 

at  first 

Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern 

She     play'd    about    with    slight    and 

Sea 

sprightly  talk, 

In  battle,   fighting  for  the  blameless 

And  vivid'smiles,  and  faintly-venom'd 

King. 

points 

Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing 
there ; 

And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the 

VIVIEN. 

Seer 

Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and 

A  STORM  was  coming,  but  the  winds 

play, 

were  still. 

Ev'n   when    they    seem'd    unlovable. 

And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 

and  laugh ' 

Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old 

As  tho.se  that  watch  a  kitten  ;  thus  he 

It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  masonwork, 

grew 

At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain'd,  and 

she, 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  dis- 

The wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's 

court : 

dain'd. 

VI VI  EX. 


269 


Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver 

fits, 
Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when 

they  met 
Si^h  fulh%  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 

man, 
The'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 

times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for 

love, 
And  half  believe  her  true  :  for  thus  at 

times 
He  waver'd;  but  that  other  clung  to 

him, 
Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 
Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melanclioly  ; 
And  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd 

the  beach ; 
There   found  a  little  boat,  and  stept 

into  it ; 
And  Vivien  follow'd,   but   he  mark'd 

her  not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the 

boat 
Drave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the 

deeps, 
\nd  touching  Breton  sands,  they  dis- 

embark'd. 
.\nd  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the 

way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a  charm, 
riie  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With   woven  paces  and  with  waving 

arms. 
The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd 

to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow 

tower. 
From  which  was   no   escape   forever- 
more  ; 
And  none  could  find  that  man  forever- 
more, 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  WTOught 

the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the 

charm 
Upon  the  great  F.nchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying  that  ii'jr  glory  would  be 

great 


According  to  his  greatness  whom  she 
quench'd. 

There  lay  she   all   her  length  and 

kiss'd  his  feet, 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair  ;  a 

robe 
Of  samite   without   price,   that    more 

exprest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 

limbs, 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On   sallows   in  the   windy    gleams  of 

March  : 
And    while   she   kiss'd   them,    crj-ing, 

"  Trample  me. 
Dear  feet,  that   I  have  follow'd  thro' 

the  world. 
And  I  will  pay  you  worship ;  tread  me 

down 
And  Iwillkissyou  for  it";  he  was  mute: 
So  dark  a  foretliought  roil'd  about  his 

brain. 
As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 

sea-hall 
In  silence :  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and 

said, 
"O   Merlin,  do  you  love   me?"  and 

again, 
"O   Merlin,  do  you  love   me?"  and 

once  more, 
"Great  Master,  do  you  love  me?"  he 

was  mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel. 
Writhed  toward  him,  slidecl  up  his  knee 

and  sat. 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 
Together,    curved   an   arm  about   his 

neck, 
Clung  lise  a  snake;  and  letting  her 

left  hind 
Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  a 

leaf. 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl 

to  part 
The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gc.o 

out 
Had  left  in  ashes :  then  he  spoke  and 

said, 
Not  looking  at  her,  "  Wiio  are  wise  ia 
love 


270 


VIVIEN. 


Love   most,    say    least,"  and    Vivien 

answer'd  quick, 
"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot : 
But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue, —  O  stupid 

child ! 
Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it ;  let  me 

think 
Silence  is  wisdom  :  I  am  silent  then 
And  ask  no  kiss  "  ;  then  adding  all  at 

once, 
"  And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom," 

drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee, 
And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 
Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  spider's 

web, 
Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild 

wood 
Without  one  word.     So  Vivien  call'd 

herself, 
But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 
Veil'd   in   gray  vapor ;   till    he    sadly 

smiled  : 
''To    what   request  for  what   strange 

boon,"  he  said, 
"Are    these    your    pretty    tricks  and 

fooleries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble  ?  yet  my  thanks, 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily, 
"What,  O  my  Master,  have  you  found 
your  voice  ? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Thanks 

at  last ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip. 
Except  indeed  to  drink  :  no  cup  had  we  : 
In  mine  own  lady  palms  1  cull'd  the 

spring 
That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from 

the  cleft. 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my 

hands 
And  offer'd  you  it  kneeling  :  then  you 

drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one 

poor  word ; 
O  no  more  thanks  than  might  a  goat 

have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 

beard. 


And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well, 
And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you 

lay 
Foot-giit  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of 

those 
Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did 

you  know 
That   Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before 

her  own  ? 
And  yet  no  thanks  :  and  all  thro'  this 

wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I  fondled 

you: 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not 

so  strange  — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you  ?  surely  you 

are  wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than 

kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 

and  said  : 
"  O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore. 
And   watch   the   curl'd  white   of   the 

coming  wave 
Glass'd  in  the  slipper}'  sand  before  it 

breaks  ? 
Ev'n  such   a  wave,  but  not  so  pleas- 
urable. 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful 

mood. 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 
And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's 

court 
To  break  the  mood.     You  follow'd  me 

unask'd ; 
And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  fol- 
lowing still, 
My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest 

thing 
In  that  mind-mist :  for  shall  I  tell  you 

truth  ? 
You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break 

upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 

world. 
My  use  and  name   and   fame.     Your 

pardon,  child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all 

again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you 

thrice. 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 

next 


VIVIEN-. 


271 


For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected, 
last 

For  these  your  dainty  gambols  :  where- 
fore ask : 

And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not 
so  strange." 

And  Vivien  answer' d,  smiling  mourn- 
fully : 
"'  O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it, 
Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are 

strange, 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood 

of  yours. 
I  ever  fear'd  you  were  not  wholly  mine  ; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  you  did 

me  wTong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet :  let  it  be  : 
But  not   of  those   that  can   expound 

themselves. 
Take  Vivien  for  e.xpounder ;  she  wll 

call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom 

of yours 
No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful 

mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than 

yourself. 
Whenever    I    have    ask'd    this    very 

boon, 
Now  ask'd  again  :  for  see  you  not,  dear 

love, 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately 

gloom'd 
Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following 

you. 
Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are 

not  mine, 
Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove 

you  mine. 
And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 

this  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 
As  proof  of  trust.     O  Merlin,  teach  it 

me. 
The  charm   so   taught  will  charm  us 

both  to  rest. 
For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon 

your  fate. 
I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust. 
Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 

you  mine, 
And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are 

named. 


Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reti- 
cence. 
How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly ! 
O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 
That  I  should  prove  it  on  you  un- 
awares. 
To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name 

and  fame. 
That  makes  me  most  indignant ;  then 

our  bond 
Had  best  be  loosed  forever  :  but  think 

or  not. 
By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the 

clean  truth. 
As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as 

milk : 
O  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 
If  these  unwitty  wanderinojwits  of  mine, 
Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  ofa  dream. 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treach- 
ery- 
May    this    hard   earth  cleave   to  the 

Nadir  h;ll 
Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 

me  flat, 
If  I  be  such  a  traitress.    Yield  my  boon. 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I 

am  ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish. 
The  great  proof  of  your  love  :  because 

I  think. 
However  wise,  you  hardly  know  me 
yet." 

And  Merlin   loosed  his  hand  from 

hers  and  said  : 
"  I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too   curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of 

trust. 
Than  when  I  told. you  first  of  such  a 

charm. 
Yea,  if  you  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this. 
Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you 

that. 
And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which  ruin'd 

man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour  ;  for  how- 

soe'er 
In  children  a  great  curiousness  be  well. 
Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  al) 

the  world. 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  .still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  I  spell  lli« 

Hnes, 


Z-]l 


VIVIEN. 
not  call  it 


I   call    it,  —  well,    I   \^ 
vice : 

But  since  you  name  yourself  the  sum- 
mer fly, 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat. 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten 
back 

Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weari- 
ness : 

But  sii^ce  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you 
power 

Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 

Why  will  you  never  ask   some  other 
.  boon  ? 

Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too 
much." 

And    Vivien,    like    the    tenderest- 

hearted  maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,   either  eyelid  wet  with 

tears. 
"  Nay,   master,  be  not  wrathful  with 

your  maid  ; 
Caress  her :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who   feels  no   heart  to  ask  another 

boon. 
I   think  you  hardly  know  the  tender 

rhyme 
Of '  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 

once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.  Listen  to  it. 

'  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love 
be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal 

powers  : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

'  It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute. 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 

mute. 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

'  The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute. 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit. 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

'  It  is   not   worth  the  keeping :    let 
it  go: 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer, 

no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 


O   master,    do   you    love    my   tender 
rhyme?" 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed 

her  true. 
So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her  face, 
So   sweetly  gleam'd   her  eyes  behind 

her  tears 
Like  sunlight  on  the  plain  behind  a 

shower : 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly  : 

"  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I 

heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where 

we  sit : 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve 

of  us. 
To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current 

then 
In  these   wild  w-oods,   the   hart  with 

golden  horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question 

rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round, 
That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and 

men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the 

world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest 

of  us, 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 

_  flash'd. 
And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for  fame, 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming 

down 
To  such  a  stem  and  iron-clashing  close, 
That  when  he  stopt  a'C  long'd  to  hurl 

together, 
And    should    have    done    it  ;  but    the 

beauteous  beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our 

feet, 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land  ;  and  all  day  long 

we  rode 
Thro'  the  dim  land  against  a  rushing 

wind. 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our 

ears. 
And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden 

horns 
Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 


VIVIEN. 


^11 


Tliat  laughs  at  iron  —  as  our  warriors 

did  — 
Where    children   cast   their  pins   and 

nails,  and  cry, 
'Laugh  little  well,'  but  touch  it  with 

a  sword. 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point ;  and 

there 
We  lost  him  :   such  a  noble  song  was 

that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that 

sweet  rhyme, 
I   felt  as  tho'   you  knew  this  cursed 

charm. 
Were    proving    it   on  me,  and  that  I 

lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and 

fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mourn- 
fully : 

"  O  mine  have  ebb'd  away  forever- 
more, 

And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild 
wood, 

Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  !  they 
never  mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe'er  you  scorn 
my  song 

Take  one  verse  more  —  the  lady  speaks 
it  —  this : 

'  My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is 

closelier  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be   mine,   that 

fame  were  thine. 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 

shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says  she  not  well  ?  and   there  is 

more  —  this  rhyme 
\s  like  the  fair  pearl-necklace  of  the 

Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls 

were  split  ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics 

kept. 
But  never  more  the  same   two   sister 

pearls 
Ran   down   the  silken  thread   to  kiss 

each  other 

i8 


On  her  white  neck —  so  is  it  with  this 

rhyme  : 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands. 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently  ; 
Yet  is  there  one  true  hue,  the  pearl  of 

pearls ; 
'  Alan  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman 

wakes  to  love.' 
True  :    Love,   tho'   Love  were  of  the 

grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And   uses,   careless  of  the   rest ;   but 

Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing 

to  us; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-dis- 

fame. 
And  counterchanged   with   darkness? 

you  yourself 
Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 

son, 
And  since  you  seem  the  Mas'er  of  all 

Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of 

ail  Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 

and  said, 
"  I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed. 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat 

alone, 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield 

of  wood. 
And  then   was  painting  on   it  fancied 

arms. 
Azure,  an  Ea'jle  rising  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief;  the   scroll  '  I  follow 

fame.' 
And  speaking  not,  but  le.ming  over  him, 
I   took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the 

bird, 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  agrafT, 
With  tliis  for  motto,  '  Rather  use  than 

fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush  ;  but 

afterwards 
He  m.ide  a  stalwart  knight.    O  Vivien, 
For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love 

me  well ; 
For  me,   I  love  you  somewhat ;  rest : 

and  Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in 

himself. 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon, 


274 


VIVIEN. 


Too   prurient  for  a  proof  against  the 

grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love  :  but  Fame 

with  men, 
Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  man- 
kind, 
Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in 

herself. 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love. 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame 

again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.     Lo,  there  my 

boon ! 
What  other?  for  men  sought  to  prove 

me  vile, 
Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater 

minds : 
And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil's  son; 
The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help 

herself 
By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and 

brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 

own  heart. 
Sweet  were  the  days  when  I   was  all 

unknown. 
But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 

storm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not 

for  it. 
Right  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  half- 

disfame. 
Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.     That 

other  fame. 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 

vague, 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the 

grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it :  a  single  misty  star, 
Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of 

three, 
I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that 

star 
To  make  fame  nothing.     Wherefore,  if 

I  fear. 
Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this 

charm. 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having 

power. 
However  well  you  think  you  love  me 

now 


( As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupillage 
Have  tunl'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came 

to  power ) 
I    rather   dread  the  loss  of  use  than 

fame ;  * 

If  you  —  and  not  so  much  from  wicked- 
ness, 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  overstrain'd  affection,  it  may  be. 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy, 
Should   try  this  charm  on  whom  you 
say  you  love." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  as  in 

wrath  : 
"  Have  I  not  sworn  ?    I  am  not  trusted. 

Good  ! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it ;  I  shall  find  it  out; 
And  being  foiuid  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger 

born 
Of  your  misfailh  ;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,   for  this   full   love  of 

mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit 

well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.   So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  love  at  a'l. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  O  why  not? 

0  to  what  end,  except  a  jealous  one. 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love, 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  your- 
self? 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
You  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and 

there. 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow 

tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  forevermore." 

*  Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 
swer'd lier  : 

"  Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was 
mine, 

I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 
mine 

But  youth  and  love  ;  and  that  full  heart 
of  yom-s 

Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure 
you  mine  ; 

So  live  uncharm'd.  For  those  who 
wrought  it  first, 


viviEy.                                    275 

The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that 

His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 

waved, 

The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he 

The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle- 

sway'd 

bones 

To  find  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the 

Who  paced  it,  ages  back  :  but  will  you 

King 

hear 

Some    charm,   which    being   wrought 

The   legend   as  in  guerdon   for  your 

upon  the  Qtieen 

rhyme  ? 

Might  keep  her  all  his  own  :  to  such  a 

"There   lived   a  king  m   the  most 

He  promised  more  than  ever  king  ha« 

Eastern  East, 

given. 

Less  0  d  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 

A  league  of  mountain   full  of  golden 

Hath  earnest  in  it  of  tar  springs  to  be. 

mines, 

A  tawny  pirate  anchor'd  in  his  port, 

A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of 

Whose'  bark    had   plunder'd    twenty 

coast, 

nameless  isles ; 

A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him  : 

And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of 

But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd. 

dawn, 

the  King 

He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 

Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  mean- 

All fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 

ing  by  it 

And  pushing  his  black  craft  among 

To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders 

them  all, 

back. 

He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs  and  brought 

Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 

her  off. 

Their   heads   should   moulder  on   the 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow- 

city  gates. 

slain  ; 

And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the 

A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  won- 

charm 

derful. 

Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 

They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when 

And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach'd  on 

she  moved : 

the'walls : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield 

And   many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion 

her  up, 

crows 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy  ; 
Then  made  her  Queen  :  but  those  isle- 

Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway 

towers." 

nurtur'd  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  su:cessful 

And  Vi\nen,  breaking  in  upon  him, 

war 

said : 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd  ;  coun- 

" I  sit  and  gather  honey ;  yet,  methinks. 

cils  thinn'd. 

Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little  :  ask  your- 

And armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she 

self 

drew 

The  ladv  never  made  univtUtn^  war 

The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts ; 

With  those   fine   eyes;    she   had   her 

And  beasts  themselves  would  worship  ; 

pleasure  in  it. 

camels  knelt 

And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 

Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 

good  cause. 

back 

And    lived    there    neither  dame    nor 

That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black 

damsel   then 

knees 

Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss?   were  all  as 

Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent 

tame. 

hands. 

I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was 

To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 

fair? 

bells. 

Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes. 

What  wonder    being  jealous,  that  he 

Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her 

sent 

drink. 

276  VIVIEN-. 

Or  make   her  paler   with   a  poison'd 


Well,  those  were  not  our  days  ;  but  did 

they  find 
A  wizard?    Tell  me,  was  he  like  to 

thee  ? " 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 

routid  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 

her  eyes 
Speak  tor  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 

bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of 

men. 

He  answer'd   laughing,   "  Nay,  not 

like  to  me. 
At  last  they  found  — his  foragers  for 

charms  — 
A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man. 
Who  lived  alone   in  a  great  wild   on 

grass; 
Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading 

grew 
So  grafted  down  and  filed  away  with 

thought, 
So    lean    his    eyes  were    monstrous; 

while  the  skin 
Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and 

spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole 

aim. 
Nor  ever  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 

flesh. 
Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the 

wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them 

thro'  it, 
And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the 

wall, 
And    learnt    their  elemental    secrets, 

jiowers 
And  forces  ;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright 

Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 

And  lash'd  it  at  tlie  base  with  slanting 
storm  ; 

Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving 
rain, 

When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pine- 
wood  mar'd, 


And  the  caim'd  mountain  was  a  shad- 
ow, sunn'd 
The  world  to  peace  again  :    here  was 

the  man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to 

the  King. 
And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm 

the  Queen 
In  such-wi.se,  that  no  man  could  see 

her  more. 
Nor    saw   she    save    the    King,   w-ho 

wrought  the  charm, 
Coming   and    going,    and    she    lay  as 

dead, 
And  lost  all  use  of  life  :  but  when  the 

King 
Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden 

mines. 
The  pro\  ince  with  a  hundred  miles  of 

coast. 
The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old 

man 
Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived 

on  grass. 
And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down 


And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  sauci- 
ly : 
'■  You  have   the   book :    the  charm  is 

written  in  it : 
Good  :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know 

it  at  once  : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest, 
With  each  chest  lock'd  and  padlock'd 

thirty-fold, 
And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 

mound 
As  after  I'urious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy 

deep, 
I    yet   should   strike    upon    a   sudden 

means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the 

charm  : 
Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame 

me  then?" 

And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at 
one 

That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any 
school 

But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Igno- 
rance 


"  She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her." 


viriEX. 


277 


Delivers  brnwiing  judgments,  una- 
shamed, 

On  all  thini;s  all  day  long,  he  answer'd 
her  ; 

"You  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Viv- 
ien ! 
O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
IJiit  every  page  liaving  an  ample  marge, 
And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midr^t 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  biot, 
The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of 

fleas ; 
And  every   square   of   text   an   a\%"ful 

charm, 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone 

So  long,  that  mountains  liave  arisen 

since 
With  cities  on  their  flanks — you  read 

the  book  ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost,  and 

cramm'd 
With  comment,  densest  condeni.^tion, 

hard 
To  mind  and  eye  ;  but  the  long  sleep- 
less nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to 

me. 
And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I ; 
And  none  can  read  the  comment  but 

myself; 
And  in  the   comment  did  I  find   the 

chann. 
O.  the  results  are  simple  ;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one. 
And  never  could  undo  it :  ask  no  more  : 
For  tho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon 

me, 
But  keep  that  oath  you  swore,  you 

might,  perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one   of  the   Table 

Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble 

of  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 

said : 
"  What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me? 
They  ride   abroad  redressing   human 

wrongs ! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine 

in  horn. 
TJuy  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  ! 


Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  .1 
tale. 

I»ut  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 

The  shame  that  cannot  be  expi.iin'J 
for  shame. 

Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch 
me  :  swine  !  " 

Then   answer'd   Merlin   careless   of 

her  words, 
"  You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  aad 

vague. 
Spleen-born,    I    think,  and   proofless. 

If  you  know, 
Set  up  the  charge  you  know,  to  stand 

or  fall ! " 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  frowning  WTath- 

fuliy  : 
"  O  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence, 

him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er 

his  wife 
And  two  lair  babes,  and  went  to  distant 

lands ; 
Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning 

found 
Not  two  but  three  :  there  lay  the  reck- 
ling, one 
I)ut   one   hour   old !     What   said   th» 

happy  sire  ? 
A   seven    months'    babe   had   been   a 

truer  gift. 
Those   twelve   sweet  moons  confused 

his  fatherhood." 

Then  answer'd  Merlin: "Nay,  I  know 

the  tale. 
Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland 

dame  : 
Some   cause    had   kept    him  sunder'd 

from  his  wife  : 
One  child  they  had  :  it  lived  with  her  : 

she  died : 
His  kinsman    travelling   on   his   own 

affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  hom» 

the  child. 
He   brought,  not  found   it    therefore: 

lake  the  truth." 

"  O  ay,"   said  Vivien,    "  ovcrtrue  a 


ay, 

tala, 


278                                                        VIVIEN. 

What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagra- 

The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of 

more, 

Christ, 

That  ardent  man  ?  '  to  pluck  the  flower 

Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's 

in  season '  ; 

fold. 

So  says  the  song,  '  I  trow  it  is  no  trea- 

What, in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel- 

son.  ' 

yard, 

O  Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 

Among   the   knightly   brasses    of   the 

To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the 

graves, 

hour?" 

And  by  the   cold   Hie  Jacets   of  the 
dead  !  " 

And   Merlin  answer'd  :  "  Overquick 

are  you 

And  Merlin  answer'd,  careless  of  her 

To  catch  a  lothly  plume  fall'n  from  the 

charge  : 

wing 

"  A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure  ; 

Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole 

But  once  in  life  was  fluster'd  with  new 

prey 

wine, 

Is  man's  good  name  :  he  never  wrong'd 

Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 

his  bride. 

yard  ; 

I  know  the  tale.     An  angry  gust   of 

Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses 

wind 

caught 

Puff 'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad- 

And   meant   to   stamp   him   with  her 

room'd 

master's  mark; 

And  many  coiridor'd  complexities 

And  that  he  sinn'd,  is  not  believable  ; 

Of  Arthur's  palace  :   then  he  found  a 

For,  look  upon  his  face!  — but  if  he 

door 

sinn'd, 

And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  orna- 

The sin  that  practice  burns  into  the 

ment 

blood, 

That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem 

And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings 

his  own  ; 

remorse. 

And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch 

Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we 

and  slept, 

be: 

A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid ; 

Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 

And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other 

hymns 

there  ; 

Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than 

Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal 

all. 

rose 

But  is  your  spleen  froth' d  out,  cr  have 

InArthur's  casementglimmer'd  chaste- 

ye more  ? " 

ly  down, 

Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  frowning  yet  in 

once 

wrath  : 

He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted 

"0  ay ;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot, 

from  her  : 

friend  ? 

Eut  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about 

Traitor  or  true?   that  commerce  with 

the  court. 

the  Queen, 

The  brute  world  howling  forced  them 

I  ask  you,  is  itclamor'd  by  the  child, 

into  bonds, 

Or  whisper'd  in  the  corner?   do  you 

And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being 

know  it  ?  " 

pure." 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly  :  "  Yea, 

"  O   ay,"  said  Vivien,    "  that  were 

1  know  it. 

likely  too. 

Sir  Lancelot  \\tnt  ambassador,  at  first. 

What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 

To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the 

And   of  the   horrid   foulness   that   he 

King; 

wrought, 

So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :  let  him  be. 

VIl'IEN.                                                       ,7, 

r.ut   have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal 

Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 

praise 

Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad 

For  Artliur,  blameless  King  and  stain- 

clean. 

less  man  ? " 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuck- 

wiii'd. 

ling  laugh  : 

He  dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes  dowTi, 

"  Him?  is  he  man  at  all,  who  knows 

and  made 

and  winks? 

A  snowy  pentliouse  for  his  hollow  eyes. 

Sees  wliat  his  fair  bride  is  and  does, 

And  mutter'd  in  himself,  "  Tell  Iter  the 

and  winks  ? 

charm  ! 

By  wh  ch  tlie  good  king  means  to  blind 

So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 

himself, 

To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it 

And  b'inds  himself  and  all  the  Table 

not. 

Round 

So  will  she  rail.    What  did  the  wanton 

To  all   the   foulness  that  they  work. 

say? 

Myself 

'  Not  mount  as  high ' ;  we  scarce  can 

Could  call  liim  (were  it  not  for  woman- 

sink as  low : 

hood) 

For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 

The  pretty,  popular  name  such  man- 

earth. 

hood  earns. 

But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all 

and  Hell. 

their  crime ; 

I  know  the    Table  Round,  mv  friends 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward, 

of  old; 

and  fool." 

All   brave,   and    many   generous,    and 

some  chaste. 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loath- 

I think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss 

ing,  said : 

with  lies ; 

"  0  true  and  tender !     0  my  liege  and 

I  do  believe  she   tempted  them   and 

king! 

fail'd. 

0  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentle- 

She is  so  bitter  :  for  fine  plots  may  fail. 

man. 

Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as 

Who  wouidst  against  thine  own  eye- 

face 

witness  fain 

With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women 

theirs. 

pure  ; 

I  will  not  let  her  know:  nine  tithes  of 

How,  m  the  mouths  of  base  interpret- 

times 

ers. 

Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the 

From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 

same. 

To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and 

And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute 

foul 

a  crime 

As  the  poach'd   filth   that  floods  the 

Are   pronest  to  it,  and  impute  them- 

middle street, 

selves. 

Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted 

Wanting  the  mental  rage  ;  or  low  desire 

blame ! " 

Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level 

-.'1  • 

But  Vivien    deeming    Merlin    over- 

a 1  , 
Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to 

borne 

the  i>lain, 

By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her 

To  leave  an  equal  baseness ;  and  in 

tongue 

this 

Rage   like   a   fire   among  the  noblest 

Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  thcv 

names, 

find 

Poilutinci,    and    imputing    her   whole 

Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of 

self, 

note. 

28o 


VIVIEN. 


Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so 

small, 
Inflate   themselves  with   some  insane 

delight, 
And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of     j 

clay,  I 

Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and     j 

see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spirit-     | 

ual  fire,  ' 

And    touching    other   worlds.       I   am     j 

weary  of  her."  : 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in     j 

whispers  part. 
Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and 

chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his 

mood. 
And  hearing  "  harlot "  mutter'd  twice     | 

or  thrice, 
Leapt  from  lier  session  on  his  lap,  and     ^ 

stood  _  j 

Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen  ;  loathsome  sight,  I 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love,  | 
Hash'd  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of 

death  ! 
White  was  her  cheek  ;  sharp  breaths  of     ! 

anger  puff 'd  ' 

Her  fairy  nostril  out ;  her  hand  half- 

clench'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to 

her  belt. 
And  feeling ;  had  she  found  a  dagger 

there 
(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to 

hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd  him  ;  but  she 

found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she 

took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken 

with  sobs. 

"O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale, 
Or  sung  in  song !     O  vainly  lavish'd 

love  ! 
O   cruel,   there  was   nothing  wild   or 

strange, 
Or  seemingshameful,  for  what  shame 

in  love, 


So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is  — 

nothing 

Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his 
trust 

Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her — all 
her  crime, 

All —  all  —  the  wish  to  prove  him  whol- 
ly hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapi 

her  hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,   an< 

said  : 
"  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affection) 

to  the  heart  ! 
Seeth'd  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother'.* 

milk  ! 
Kill'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  c> 

blows  ! 
I   thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being 

great : 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man  .' 

1  should  have  found  in  him  a  greatei 

heart. 
O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion, 

saw 
The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark 

in  your  light. 
Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than 

they  are, 
Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I 

had 
To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of    worship  —  I     am    answer'd,    and 

henceforth 
The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flow- 
ery to  me 
With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only 

you, 
Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken 

short. 
And  ending  in  a  ruin  —  nothing  left. 
But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and 

there. 
If  the  wolf  spare   me,   weep  my  life 

away, 
Kill'd  with  inutterable  unkindliness." 

She  paused,   she   tum'd  away,   she 

hung  her  head, 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair, 

the  braid 
Slipt    and    uncoil'd    itself,    s^ie    wept 

afresh, 


VIVIEN.                                                       28 1 

And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward 

Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once  —  could 

the  storm 

make  me  stay  — 

In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 

That  proof  of  trust  — so  often  ask'd  in 

Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 

vain  ! 

For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her 

How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 

true  : 

1  find  with  grief!    I  might  believe  you 

Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 

then. 

"Come  from  the  storm,"  and  having 

Who  knows  ?  once  more.    O,  what  was 

no  reply, 

once  to  me 

Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the 

Mere   matter  of  the   fancy,  now   Ivts 

face 

grown 

Hand-hidden,  as  for   utmost   grief  or 

The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 

shame  ; 

Farewell  ;  tliink  kindly  of  me,  for  I  fear 

Then    thrice    essay'd,    by    tenderest- 

My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youtli 

touching  terms 

For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you 

To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in 

still. 

vain. 

But  ere  1  leave  you  let  me  swear  once 

At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer'd  by 

more 

him, 

That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace 

And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  re- 

in this, 

turns, 

May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  oVr 

The    seeming-injured    simple-hearted 

me,  send 

thing 

One  flasii,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 

Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled 

may  make 

there. 

My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

There  while  she  sat,  half-faliing  from 

his  knees. 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 

Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he 

heaven  a  bolt 

saw 

(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above 

The  sow  tear  creep  from  her  closed 

them)  struck, 

eyelid  yet, 

Furrowing  a  giant  oak,   and  javelin- 

About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in 

ing 

love, 

With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the 

The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 

wood 

But  she  dislmk'd  herself  at  once  and 

The  dark  earth  round.     He  raised  his 

rose. 

eyes  and  saw 

Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and 

The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro' 

stood 

tlie  gloom. 

A      virtuous      gentlewoman      deeply 

But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard 

wrong'd. 

her  oaih. 

Upright  and  (lush'd  before  him:  then 

And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering  fork. 
And    deafen'd    witii    the    stammering 

she  said : 

cracks  and  claps 

"There  must  be  now  no  passages  of 

That  follow' d,  flying  back  and  cr>Mng 

love 

out. 

Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  ever- 

"O  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me. 

mijre. 

save. 

Since,  if  I  be  whnt  I  am  grossly  cali'd. 

Yet  save  me !"  clung  to  him  and  hugg'd 

What  should  be  granted  which  your 

him  close ; 

own  gross  huart 

And  call'd  him  dear  protector  in  her 

Would   reckon  worth    the  taking?     I 

fright. 

will  go. 

Nor  yet  torgot  her  practice  in  her  fright. 

In  trulli,  bat  one  thing  now— better 

But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugij'J 

have  died 

him  close. 

282 


ELAINE. 


The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her 

■  touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm'd. 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay 

tales : 
She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault 

she  wept 
Of  petulancy  ;  she  call'd  him  lord  and 

liege. 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve, 
Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate 

love 
Of  her  whole  life  ;  and  ever  overhead 
Bellow'd  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten 

branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 
Above  them  ;  and  in  change  of  glare 

and  gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 

came ; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 

spent, 
Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 
Had   left   the   ravaged   woodland    yet 

once  more 
To  peace  ;  and  what  should  not  have 

been  had  been. 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn. 
Had  yielded,   told  her  all  the  charm, 

and  slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 
the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
And  in  the  holloiv  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  to  lite  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 

Then  crying  "  I  have  niade  his  glory 
n,ine," 
And  shrieking  out  "  O  fool .'  "  the  har- 
lot i«iapt 
Adown  the  lorest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behi./d    her,    and    the    ^orest   echo'd 
"fool." 


ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  ihir,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Ylame,  the  lil)  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 

east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 


Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's 

earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the 

gleam ; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashion'd 

for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her 

wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And   yellow-throated  nestling  in    the 

nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father 

climb'd 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd 

her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shieid. 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his 

arms, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it. 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made 

upon  it. 
Conjecturing  when  and  where  :  this  cut 

is  fresh  ; 
That  ten  years  back  ;  this  dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle  ; 
That  at  Caerleon  ;  this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah  God's  mercy  what  a  stroke  was 

there  I 
And   here   a  thrust   that   might   have 

kill'd,  but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  his 

enemy  down. 
And  saved  iiim  :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 

shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n 

his  name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to 

tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 

jousts. 
Which  Artliur  had   ordain'd,   and  by 

that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

For  Arthur  when  none  knew  from 
whence  he  came. 


ELAINE. 


2S3 


Long  ere  the  people  chose  him  for  their 

kiivj;, 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 

nesse. 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and 

black  tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 

side  : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 

met 
And  fou:;ht  together ;  but  their  names 

were  lost. 
And  each   had  slain  his  brother  at  a 

blow, 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 

abhorr'd  : 
And  there  tiiey  lay  till  all  their  bones 

were  bleach'd. 
And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags : 
And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a 

crown 
Of  diamonds,    one  in  front,   and  four 

aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 

pass 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had   trodden    that   crown'd  skeleton, 

and  tlie  skull 
Brake  from  the   nape,  and  from   the 

skull  the  crown 
Roll'd  into  li;;ht,  and  turning  on  its  rims 
F'ied   like   a  glittering   rivulet   to  the 

tarn  : 
And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged, 

and  caught, 
And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs,   "  Lo,  thou  likewise 

shall  be  king." 

Tliereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the 

gems 
Piuck'd  from    the  crown,  and  show'd 

them  to  liis  knights, 
Saying  "  These  jewels,    whereupon  I 

chanced 
Divinely,   are  the  kingdom's,   not  the 

king's  — 
For  public  use  :  henceforward  let  there 

be. 
Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one   of 

these  : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs 

must  learn 


Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 

shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we 

drive 
The    Heatlien,   who,  some  say,  shall 

rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."     Thus 

he  spoke  : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 

been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 

year. 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the 

Queen, 
When  all  were  won ;  but  meaning  all 

at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken 

word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the 

last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his 

court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 

now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a 

joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew 

nigh 
Spake    ( for  she   bad    been    sick )    to 

Guinevere, 
"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  can- 
not move 
To  these  fair  jousts?"     "Yea,  lord," 

she  said,  "  you  know  it." 
"Then   will  you  miss,"  he  answer'd, 

"  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the 

lists, 
A  sight  you  love  to  look  on."  And  the 

Queen 
Lifted   iier  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  lan- 
guidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside 

the  King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 

there, 
"Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick;  my  love  is 

more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a 

heart, 
Love-loyal   to  the   least   wish   of  the 

Queen 


284                                                       ELAINE. 

( However  much  he  yeam'd  to  make 

Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 

complete 

Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultiest 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined 

lord?" 

boon) 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 

She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh. 

and  say, 

"  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless 

"  Sir    King,    mine    ancient   wound   is 

King, 

hardly  whole, 

That   passionate  perfection,  my  good 

And   lets  me  from  the   saddle  "  ;  and 

lord- 

the  King 

But   who  can  gaze  upon  the   Sun  in 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went 

heaven  ? 

his  way. 

He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me. 

No   sooner    gone   than   suddenly   she 

He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  un- 

began: 

truth. 

He  cares  not  for  me  :  only  here  to-day 

"To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot, 

There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his 

much  to  blame. 

eyes  : 

Why  go  you  not  to  these  fair  jousts? 

Some    meddling  rogue   has  tamper'd 

the  knights 

with  him  — else 

Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 

Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 

crowd 

And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 

Will  murmur,   lo  the  shameless  ones. 

To  make  them  like  himself:  but,  friend, 

who  take 

to  me 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is 

He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all : 

gone  !" 
Then  Lancelot,  vext  at  having  lied  in 

Yox  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch 

of  earth  ; 

vain : 

The   low  sun  makes  the  color:  I  am 

"Are  you  so  wise?  you  were  not  once 

yours. 

so  wise, 

Not  Arthur's,   as  you  know,   save  by 

My   Queen,   that  summer,  when  you 

the  bond. 

loved  me  first. 

And  therefore  hear  my  words  :  go  to 

Then  of  the  crowd  you  took  no  more 

the  jousts  : 

account 

I'he    tiny-trinnpeting  gnat   can  break 

Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead. 

our  dream 

When   its   own   voice  clings  to   each 

When  sw  eetest ;  and  the  vermin  voices 

blade  of  grass, 

here 

And   every  voice   is  nothing.     As  to 

May   buzz  so  loud  — we  scorn  them, 

knights. 

but  they  sting." 

Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 

But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

Of  all  men  :  many  a  bard,  without  of- 

knights, 

fence. 

"  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext 

Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his 

made. 

lay, 

Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 

Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guine- 

Before a  king  who  honors  his  own  word, 

vere, 

As  if  it  were"  his  God's?" 

The  pearl  of  beauty  :  and  our  knights 

"Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 

at  feast          ...             .        ' 

"A  moral    child  without  the  craft   to 

Have  ]i!edged  us  in  this  union,  while     ' 

rule, 

the  king 

Else  had  he  not  lost  me  :  but  listen  to 

Would  listen  smiling.     How  then?  is 

me, 

there  mf)re? 

If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 

Has  Arthur  spoken  aught?  or  would 

That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  a» 

yourself,                                                i 

a  touch 

ELAINE. 


283 


But   knowing  you  are  Lancelot ;  your 

great  name, 
This  conquers  :  hide  it  therefore  ;  go 

unknown : 
Win  !  by  this  kiss  you  will  :  and  our 

true  king 
Will  then   allow  your  pretext,   O  my 

knight. 
As  all  for  glory  ;  for  to  speak  him  true, 
Vou  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe'er 

he  seem, 
No  keener  hunter  after  glor}'  breathes. 
He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than 

himself: 
They  prove  to  him  his  work  :  win  and 

return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to 
horse, 

Wroth  at  himself:  not  willing  to  be 
known, 

He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare. 

Chose  the  green  path  tliat  show'd  the 
rarer  foot, 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 

lull  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way  ; 

Till  as  he  traced  a  taintly-shadow'd 
track, 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 
dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  A.stolat,  he  saw 

Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 
towers. 

Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gate- 
way horn. 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad- 
wrinkled  man. 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 

And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  word- 
less man  ; 

And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 

With  two  strong  sons,  Sir  Torre  and 
Sir  Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court ; 

And  ciose  behind  them  stept  the  lily 
m.iid 

Elaine,  his  daughter :  mother  of  the 
house 

There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among 
them  rose 

With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 
knight 

Approach'd  them:  then  the  Lord  of 
Astolat, 


"  Whence  cnmest  thou,  my  guest,  and 

by  what  name 
Livest  between   the   lips?   for  by  thy 

state 
And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief 

of  those. 
After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's 

halls. 
Him  have  I  seen  :  the  rest,  his  Table 

Round, 
Known  as  they  are,   to  me  they  are 

unknown." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights, 
"  Known  am   I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall, 

and  known. 
What    I    by    mere     mischance    have 

brought,  my  shield. 
P.ut  since  1  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  n>e 

not, 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me  —  and  the 

shield  — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you 

liave. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 

mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Here 

is  Torre's : 
Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir 

Torre. 
And  so,  God  wot,  his  sliield  is  blank 

enough. 
His  you  can  have."     Then  added  plain 

Sir  Torre, 
"Yea  since  I  cannot  use  it,  you  may 

h.ive  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father,  saying,  "  Fie, 

Sir  Cluirl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
Allow  liim  :  but  Lavaine,  my  younger 

here. 
He  is  St)  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 

hour 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair. 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"Nay,  fatlier,  nay  good  father,  shame 
me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young 
Lavaine, 


ELAINE. 


"  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd  on 

Torre  : 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not 

go  : 
A  jest,  no  more:  for,  knight,  the  maiden 

dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 

hand. 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some   pool   or 

stream, 
The  castle-well,  belike ;  and  then  I  said 
That   i/  I    went  and  if  I  fought  and 

won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 
Then   must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All 

was  jest. 
But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To   ride   to  Camelot  with   this  noble 

knight : 
Win  shall  1  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win  : 
Young  as    I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my 

best." 

"  So  you  will  grace  me,"  answer'd 
Lancelot, 

Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellow- 
ship 

O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost 
myself. 

Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 
friend  ; 

And  you  shall  win  this  diamond  —  as  I 
hear, 

It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,  —  ifyou  may. 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  you 
will." 

"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain 
Sir  'I'orre, 

"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple 
maids." 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

Elaine,  and  lieard  her  name  so  tost 
about, 

Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  look- 
ing at  her, 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  re- 
turn'd  : 

"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair. 

And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 


Rash   were   my   judgment   then,    wha 

deem  this  maid 
Might  \\  ear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth, 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  .spoke  and  ceased  :  the  lily  maid 
Elaine, 

Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she 
look'd. 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  linea- 
ments. 

The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the 
Queen, 

In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord. 

Had  man'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere 
his  time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with 
one, 

The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 
world. 

Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it :  but  in  him 

His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and 
rose 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  soli- 
tudes 

For  agony,  who  was  j'et  a  living  soul. 

Marr'd  as  he  was,  h$  seem'd  the  good- 
liest man,         ^ 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 

And  noblest,  vhen  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes. 

However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice 
her  years, 

Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on 
the  cheek, 

And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 
her  eyes 

And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which 
was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of 

the  court, 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude 

hall 
Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 

disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  tinie, 
Ikit  kindly  man  moving  among  hiskind : 
Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of 

their  best 
And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  enter- 

tain'd. 
And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table 

Round, 


Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 


ELA IXE. 


287 


And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he  : 
But  Lancelot,   when   they  glanced  at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking   of   the    wordleae 

man, 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years 

before, 
Tlie  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 

tongue. 
"  He  leanit  and  wam'd  me  of  their 

fierce  design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maim'd  ; 
But  I  my  sons  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were   those,  till  our  good 

Arthur  broke 
The  Pasjan  yet  once  more  on  Badon 

hill. " 

"  O  there,  great  Lord,  doubtless," 

Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 

youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "you 

have  fought. 
O  tell  us  ;  for  we  live  apart,  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."  And  Lan- 
celot spoke 
And  answer'd  him  at  full,    as  having 

been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day 

long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 

Glem  ; 
And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas  ;  that  on  Bassa  ;  then  the  war 
That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy 

skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Gumion  where  the  glorious 

King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's 

Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald,  centred  in  a  sun 
Of  silver   rays,   that   lighten'd  as  he 

breathed  ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord. 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 
And  up  m  Agned  Cathregonion  too, 


And  down   the   waste    sand-shores  of 

Trath  Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell  ;  "and  on 

the  moflnt 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the    head   of  all  his  Table 

Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crjing  Christ  and 

him. 
And  break  them  ;  and  I  saw  him,  after, 

stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to 

plume 
Red  as  the  rising   sun   with   heathen 

blood, 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he 

cried, 
"  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken  " 

for  the  King, 
However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor 

cares 
For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the 

jousts  — 
For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down, 

he  laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than 

he  — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him  :  I  never  saw  his  like  :  there 

lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  iitter'd  this. 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lil  v  maid, 
"  Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord '' ;  and 

when  he  fell 
From   talk   of  war  to  traits  of  pleas- 
antry— 
Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living 

smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a 

cloud 
Ofmelancholy  severe,  from  which  again, 
Whenever  in  her  hoverins;  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 

ciieer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tender- 
ness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature  :  and  she 

thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for 

her. 
And  all  niyht  long  his  face  before  her 

livcii, 


a88 


ELAINE. 


As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face, 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the 

man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints- him  that  his 

face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,' ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  lier  lived. 
Dark-splendid,  siieaking  in  the  silence, 

full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her 

sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 

thought 
She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 

Lavaine. 
First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating : 
Anon,   slie  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in 

the  court, 
"This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?" 

and  Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 

tower. 
There   to  his    proud    horse   Lancelot 

tum'd,  and  smooth'd 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  him- 
self 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she 

drew 
Nearer  and  stood.   He  look'd,and  more 

amazed 
Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him, 

saw 
The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 
He  had  not  dream'd  she  was  so  beau- 
tiful. 
Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 
For  silent,    tho'   he   greeted   her,  she 

stood 
Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 
Suddenly  flash'd  on  her  a  wild  desire. 
That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the 

tilt. 
She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking 

for  it. 
"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not  — 

noble  it  is, 
I  well  believe,  the  noblest  —  will  you 

wear 
My  favor  at  this  tourney?  "     "  Nay," 

said  he, 
"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady.in  the  lists. 


Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know 

me,  know." 
"Yea,    so,"    she  answer'd  ;  "then    in 

wearing  mine 
Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 

lord, 
That   those   who   know   should   know 

you."     And  he  turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his 

mind, 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  "True, 

my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  tome  : 
What  is  it?  "  and  she  told  him  "a  red 

sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it : 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  "  I   never  yet  have   done  so 

much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face,  and  fill'd  her  with 

delight  ; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet  unblazon'd 

shield, 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lan- 
celot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine  ; 
"  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have 

my  shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."     "A  grace  to 

me," 
She   answer'd,    "  twice   to-day.     I  am 

your  Squire." 
Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  "  Lily 

maid. 
For  fear  our  people  call  3'ou  lily  maid 
In   earnest,    let   me   bring  your  color 

back ; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you 

hence  to  bed  "  : 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand, 
And  thus  they  moved  away  :  she  stay'd 

a  minute, 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate, 

and  there  — 
Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious 

face 
Yet    rosy-kindled   with   her  brother's 

kiss  — 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the 

shield 


ELAINE. 


28., 


In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms 

lar-off 
Sparkle,    until    they    dipt    belo.v   the 

downs. 
Then   to   her  tower  she  climb'd,  and 

took  the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past 
away 

Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  biishless 
downs, 

To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived 
a  knight 

Not  far  froni  Camelot,  now  for  forty 
years 

A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and 
pray'd 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  him- 
self 

In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 

On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliiT 
cave. 

And  cells  and  chambers  :  all  were  fair 
and  dry ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  un- 
derneath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roots ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending  there  that  night 
they  bode.  ^ 

But  when  the  next  day  bnjke  from 
underground. 

And  shot  red  lire  and  shadows  thro'  the 
cave. 

They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  last,  and 
rode  away  : 

Then  Lancelot  .saying,  "  Hear,  but  hold 
my  name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake," 

Abash'd  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rever- 
ence, 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 
own  praise, 

Out  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "  Is  it 
indeed^  " 

And  after  muttering  "  the  great  Lan- 
celot" 

10 


At  last  he  got  his  breath  andanswer'd, 

"One, 
One  have  1  seen  —that  other, our licgc 

lord, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  king 

of  kings. 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there  — then  were  I  stricken 

blind 
That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had 

seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they 
re.'.ch'd  tiie  lists 

By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 

Run  thio'  the  peopled  gallery  which 
iialf  round 

Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass. 

Until  they  found  the  clear  faced  King, 
who  sat 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be 
known. 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clun^. 

And  down  liis  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold. 

And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him 
crept 

Two  dm^'ons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 
m.ike 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of 
them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  them- 
selves, 

Vet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the 
work  : 

And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  hira 
set, 

Blazed  the  last  diainond  of  the  name- 
less king. 

Then  Lancelot  answcr'd  young  La- 
vaine and  said, 

"  Me  you  call  great  :  mine  is  the  firmer 
seat. 

The  truer  lance :  but  there  is  many  a 
youth 

Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I  am 

And  overcome  it  ;  and  in  ine  ihcro 
dwells 


290 


ELAINE. 


No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off 

touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not 

great : 
There  is  the  man."  And  Lavaine  gaped 

upon  iiim 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
TJie  trumpets  blew  ;  and  then  did  eitlier 

side, 
They  that  assail'd,  and  they  that  held 

the  lists. 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 

move. 
Meet  in   the   midst,   and  there  so  fu- 
riously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well 

perceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield. 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thun- 
der of  arms. 
And    Lancelot    bode   a   little,    till    he 

saw 
Which  were  the  weaker  ;  then  he  hurl'd 

into  it 
Against   the    stronger :   little   need   to 

speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  :  King,  duke, 

earl. 
Count,    baron  —  whom    he   smote,    he 

overthrew. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith 

and  kin. 
Ranged   with   the   Table  Round  that 

held  the  lists. 
Strong  men,  andwrathful  that  a  stranger 

knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot  ;  and  one  said  to  the  other, 

"Lo! 
What  is  he  ?     I  do  not  mean  the  force 

alone, 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  — 
Is   it    not    Lancelot  !  "     "  When   has 

Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know 

him,  know." 
"  How  then  ?  who  then  ?  "  a  fury  seized 

on  them, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
Tliey  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd 

their  steeds  and  thus, 


Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the 

wind  they  made 
In  moving,  ail  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wild  North- 

.sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the 

skies, 
Down   on  a  bark,  and   overbears  the 

bark. 
And  him  tiiat  helms  it,  so  they  over- 
bore 
Sir   Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a 

spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and 

a  spear 
Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the 

head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 

and  remain 'd. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  wor- 
shipful ly  ; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the 

earth. 
And    brt)ught    his   horse    to    Lancelot 

where  he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony, 

got. 
But  thouglit  to  do  while  he  might  yet 

endure. 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 
His  party,  — tho'  itseemed  half- miracle 
To  those  he  fought  with  —  drave  his 

kith  and  kin. 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 

lists, 
Back  to  the  barrier;  then  the  heralds 

blew 
Proclaiming   his  the  prize,  who  wore 

the  sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ;  and  all  the 

knights. 
His  party,  cried  "Advance,  and  take 

your  prize 
The  diamond ";  but  he  answer'd,  "Dia- 
mond me 
No  diamonds  !  for  God's  love,  a  little 

air  ! 
Prize    me   no   prizes,  for  my  prize  is 

death  ! 
Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow 

me  not." 


ELAIXE. 


291 


He  spoke,   and   vanish'd   suddenly 

from  the  field 
With  young   Lavaine  into  the  poplar 

grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid, 

and  sat. 
Gasping  to   Sir  Lavaine,  "  Draw  the 

lance-head  "  : 
"  Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said 

Lavaine, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
B  It  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it :  draw  — 
Draw"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that 

other  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 

groan. 
And   half  his  blood  burst  forth,   and 

down  he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd 

away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare 

him  in. 
There  stancli'd  his  wound  ;  and  there, 

in  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by 

the  grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 

sho.vers. 
And    ever-tremulous    aspen-trees,   he 

lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists, 

His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North 
and  West, 

Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  deso- 
late isles. 

Came  round  their  great  Pendragon, 
saying  to  him, 

"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we 
won  the  day 

Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 
Iiis  prize 

Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 

"  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King, 
"  that  such  an  one. 

So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to- 
day— 

He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 

Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lan- 
celot — 

He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.  Gawain, 
rise. 


My  nephew,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  lie 

be  near. 
I  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to 

horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 

not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly 

given  : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.    We 

will  do  him 
No  customary  honor  :  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 
Ourselves  will  send  it  after.  Wlierelore 

take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  re- 
turn. 
And  bring  us  what  he  is  and  how  he 

fares, 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until 

you  find." 

So   saying   from   the   carven   flower 

above. 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he 

took. 
And  gave,   the  diamond :   then   from 

where  he  sat 
At   Arthur's   right,  with  smiling  face 

arose. 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart, 

a  Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his 

.NLiy, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair 

and  strong, 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Ge- 

raint 
And    Lamorack,   a  good   knight,    but 

therewithal 
Sir  Motired's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house. 
Nor  often  loyal  lo  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally 

forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made 

him  leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 

and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and 
went ; 
While  .Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 
m<x>d. 


292                                                       ELAINE. 

Past,  thinking,  "  Is  it  Lancelot  who  has 

So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 

come 

Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter: 

Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 

now  remains 

gain 

But  little  cause  for  laughter  :  his  cwn 

Of  glorj',    and   has  added   wound  to 

kin  — 

wound, 

111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love 

And  ridd'n  away  to  die?"     So  fear'd 

him,  these  ! 

the  King, 

His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon 

And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there. 

him  ; 

retum'd. 

So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the 

Then  when   lie   saw  the   Queen,  em- 

field : 

bracing  ask'd, 

Yet  good  news  too :  for  goodly  hopes 

"  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ? "     "  Nay, 

are  mine 

lord,"  she  said. 

That    Lancelot    is  no   more   a   lonely 

"  And  where  is  Lancelot  ? "    Then  the 

heart. 

Queen  amazed. 

He  wore,    against  his  wont,  upon  his 

"  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not 

helm 

your  prize?" 

A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great 

"  Nay,    but   one   like   him."     "  Why 

pearls, 

that  like  was  he." 

Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 

"  Yea, "lord,"  she  said. 

knew. 

"Your   hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying 

Said,  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  you  parted 

that  she  choked, 

from  us. 

And  sharply  tuni'd  about  to  hide  her 

Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common 

face, 

talk 

Moved  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung 

That  men  went  down  before  his  spear 

herself 

at  a  touch, 

Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and 

But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot ;  his  great 

writhed  upon  it, 

name 

And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit 

Conquer'd ;  and   therefore    would    he 

the  palm, 

hide  his  name 

And  shriek'd  out  '  traitor '  to  the  un- 

From  all  men,  ev'n  the  king,  and  to 

hearing  wall. 

this  end 

Then  tlasli'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 

Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering 

again. 

wound, 

And   moved   about  her  palace,  proud 

That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all, 

and  pale. 

and  learn 

If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  de- 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

cay'd : 

round 

And  added,  '  Our  true  Arthur,  when  he 

Rode  witii  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the 

learns, 

quest. 

Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 

Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 

Of  purer  glory. '  " 

grove. 

Then  replied  the  King  : 

And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Asto- 

"  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it 

lat  : 

been. 

Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  anus  the 

In  lieu  of  idly  dal'ying  with  the  truth, 

maid 

To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted 

Glanced  at,   and   cried   "  What  news 

you. 

from  Camelot,  lord  ? 

Surely  his  king  and  most  familiar  friend 

What    of    the    knight    with    the    red 

Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.  True, 

sleeve?"     ""He  won  " 

indeed, 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  said.     "  But  parted 

Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 

from  the  jousts 

ELAINE. 


»93 


Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  slie  caught 

her  breath. 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp 

lance  go  ; 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  :  welhiigh 

she  swoon 'd  : 
And,  while  he  gazed   wonderingly   at 

her,  came 
The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the 

Prince 
Reported   who  he  was,  and  on  what 

quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could 

not  find 
The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  round 
'I'o  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the 

search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat,  "  Bide 

with  us. 
And    ride    no    longer    wildly,    noble 

Prince  ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left 

a  shield  ; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for  :  further- 
more 
Our  son  is  with  him ;  we   shall  hear 

anon. 
Needs   must  we  hear."     To  this  the 

courteous  Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy. 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it. 
And  stay'd  ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  tair 

Elaine  : 
Where  could  be  found  face   daintier? 

then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect  — 

again 
From     foot     to    forehead    exquisitely 

turn'd  : 
"  Well  —  if  I  bide,  lo  !  this  wild  flower 

for  me  ! " 
And  oft  they  met  among  the   garden 

yews. 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon 

her 
With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a 

height 
Above   her,   graces   of  the  court,  and 

songs, 
Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  elo- 
quence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  m.iid 
Rebell'd    against    it,   saying   to    iiiiii, 
"  Prince, 


O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  Kinp. 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  llie  shield  he 

left. 
Whence   you   might   leam  his  name? 

Why  slight  your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  lie  sent  you  on,  and 

prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday. 
Who  lost  the  hem  we  slip't  him  at,  and 

went 
To  all  the  winds?"     "  Nay,  by  mine 

head,"  said  he, 
"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 
O   damsel,  in   the  light   of  your  blue 

eyes : 
But  an  you  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with 

gold. 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 

and  mockd  ; 
"  Right  was  the  King  I  our  Lancelot  ! 

that  true  man  !  " 
"  And  right  was  1,"  she  answer'd  mer- 
rily, "  I. 
Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest 

knight  of  all." 
"  And    if  /  dream'd,"   said   Gawain, 

"  that  you  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  I  lo, 

you  know  it  ! 
Speak  therefore  :  shall  I  waste  myself 

in  vain  ?" 
Full  simple  was  her  answer  :  "  What 

know  I  ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellow- 

shij). 
And  I,  when  often  ihey  have  talk'd  of 

love, 
Wish'd   it   had   been   my  mother,  for 

they  taik'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so 

myself — 
I  know  not  if  I  know  wliat  true  love  is, 
Hut  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks   there  is  none  other    I    can 

love." 
"  Yea,  by  God'i  death,"  said  he,  "  you 

love  him  well, 
But  would    not,    knew   you   what    a'! 

others  know, 
And   whom    ho  loves."     "So  be   it," 
cried  Elaine. 


294 


ELAINE. 


And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved 

away  : 
But  he  pursued  her  calling,  "  Stay  a 

little  ! 
One  golden  minute's  grace  :  he  wore 

your  sleeve  : 
Would  he  break,  faith  with  one  I  may 

not  name? 
Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at 

last? 
May  it  be  so  ?  why  then,  far  be  it  from 

me 
To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in   his 

loves ! 
And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full 

well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let 

me  leave 
My  quest  with  you  ;  the  diamond  also : 

here  ! 
For  if  you  love,    it  will  be  sweet  to 

give  it ; 
And  if  he   love,  it  will  be   sweet  to 

have  it 
From  your  own  hand  ;  and  whether  he 

love  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you 

well 
A  thousand  times  !  — a  thousand  times 

farewell ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we 

two 
May  meet  at  court  hereafter :  there,  I 

think, 
So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 

court, 
We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave. 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which 

he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the 

quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 

went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ;  there 

told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "  Sir  Lancelot  is 

the  knight." 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I 

learnt ; 
But  fail'd  to  fmd  him  tho'  I  rode  all 

round 


The  region  :  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid. 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ;  she  loves  him  ; 

and  to  her, 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 
I  gave  the  diamond  :  she  will  render  it ; 
For  by  mine  iiead  she  knows  his  hiding- 
place." 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd, 

and  replied, 
"  Too  courteous  truly  !  you  shall  go  no 

more 
On   quest    of   mine,    seeing   that   you 

forget 
Obedience    is    the    courtesy    due     to 

kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.  Wroth  but  all 

in  awe. 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without 

a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 
Then  shook   his  hair,  strode  off,  and 

buzz'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her 

love. 
All    ears    were    prick'd    at    once,    all 

tongues  were  loosed  : 
"  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lan- 
celot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be, 

but  most 
Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.     One  old 

dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 

sharp  news. 
She,   that   had  heard  the  noise  of  it 

before. 
But  sorrowing   Lancelot   should  have 

stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd   her    friend's  point  with   pale 

tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court. 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine  days'  wonder 

flared  : 
Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice 

or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the 

Queen, 
And   p! edging   Lancelot  and   the   lily 

maid 


ELAINE. 


295 


Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen 

who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  I'eet 

unseen 
Crush'd  the  wild  passion  out   against 

the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats 

became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who 

pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her 

heart, 
Crept  to   her  father,  while  he  mused 

alone. 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face 

and  said, 
"  Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the 

fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 

now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 

wits?" 
"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  surely."    "  Where- 
fore let  me  hence," 
She  answer'd,  "  and  find  out  our  dear 

Lavaine." 
"  You  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear 

Lavaine : 
Bide,"  answer'd  he  :  "  we  needs  must 

hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."     "Ay," 

she  said, 
"And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must 

hence 
And  find  that  other,  whereso'er  he  be. 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  dia- 
mond to  him. 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest 

to  me. 
Sweet   father,    I    behold    him    in  my 

dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself. 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's 

aid. 
The  gentler-bom  the  maiden,  the  more 

bound, 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  you 

know, 


When  these  have  worn  their  tokens: 

let  me  hence 
I  pray  you."    Then  her  father  nodding 

said, 
"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond  :  wit  you  well, 

my  child,    ^ 
Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight 

were  whole. 
Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  you  must 

give  it  — 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too 

high 
For  any   mouth   to   gape    for  save  a 

Queen's  — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing  :  so  then,  get  you 

gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,   her  suit  allow'd,  she   slipt 

away, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her 

ride, 
Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in  her 

ear, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  ^o," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  ni  her 

heart, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook 

it  off. 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes 

at  us ; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and 

said, 
"  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to 

life.>" 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for 

guide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bush- 
less  downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 
Making  a  roan  liorse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers : 
Wliom  wiien  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she 

cried,  "  Lavaine. 
How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ?  "  He 

amazed, 
"Torre  and    Elaine!    why  here?  Sir 

Lancelot ! 

now 

celot ; 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her 

tale. 


296 


ELAINE. 


Then   tum'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in 

his  moods 
Left   them,    and    under    the   strange- 

statued  gate, 
Where    Arthur's   wars   were   render'd 

mystically. 
Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin. 
His  own   far  blood,    which  dwelt    at 

Camelot ; 
And    her   Lavaine  across  the  poplar 

grove 
Led  to  the  caves  :  there  first  she  saw 

the  casque 
Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 

away, 
Stream'd  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart 

she  laugh'd, 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his 

helm. 
But  meant   once   more    perchance   to 

tourney  in  it. 
And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in  which 

he  slept. 
His   battle-writhen    arms   and  mighty 

hands 
Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them 

move. 
Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 

unshorn, 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place   so 

still 
Woke  tlie  sick  knight,   and  while  he 

roll'd  his  eyes 
Yet   blank  from  sleep,   she  started  to 

him,  saying, 
"  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 

the  King"  : 
His  eyes  glisten'd  :  she  fancied  "  is  it 

for  me  ? " 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 

the  tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 

the  quest 
Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she 

knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  comers  of  his  bed, 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 

child 


That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd 

her  face. 
At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 
"Alas,"  he  said,  "  j'our  ride  has  wear- 
ied you. 
Rest  must  you  have."     "No  rest  for 

me,"  she  said  ; 
"  Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at 

rest." 
What   might  she   mean   by  that  ?  his 

large  black  eyes. 
Yet  larger  thro'   his   leanness,   dwelt 

upon  her. 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad   secret   blazed 

itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face  ; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext 

in  mind. 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more  ; 
But  did  not  love  the  color ;  woman's 

love. 
Save  one,   he    not  regarded,   and   so 

turn'd 
Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he 

slept. 

Then  rose   Elaine  and  glided  thro' 

the  fields, 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin  ; 
There  bode  the  night :  but  woke  with 

dawn,  and  past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to   the 

fields. 
Thence  to  the  cave  :  so  day  by  day  she 

past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him, 
And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lan- 
celot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little 

hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole, 

at  times 
Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony, 

seem 
Un  courteous,  even  he  :  but  the  meek 

maid 
Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child. 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first 

fall, 


ELAINE. 


297 


Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep 

love 
Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  tliat 

time. 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved 

his  lite. 
And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple 

blush, 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 

Elaine, 
Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly, 
And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the 

love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love 

their  best 
Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 

death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradveniiire  had  he  seen  her  first 
She   might   have   made  this  and  that 

other  world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ;  but 

now 
The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd 

him. 
His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely 

true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  bom  of  sickness,  could 

not  live  : 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 

again. 
Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one  face. 
Making    a   treacherous    quiet    in    his 

heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd   on   his  fancy,  spoke,  he  an- 

swer'd  not. 
Or  short   and   coldly,    and   she  knew 

right  well 
What  the  rough   sickness  meant,  but 

what  this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd 

her  sight, 
And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 

fields 


Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd,  "  Vain,  in  vain  :  it  can- 
not be. 
He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then  ?  must 

Idle?" 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird. 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  tew 

notes, 
Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and 

o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "  Must 

I  die?" 
And  now  to  right  she  tum'd,  and  now 

to  left. 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest  ; 
And  "him   or  death"    she  mutter'd, 

"death  or  him," 
Again   and   like   a  burthen,    "  him  or 

death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  dead'yhurt 

was  whole. 
To  Astolat  reluming  rode  the  three. 
There    morn    by   mom,    arraying    her 

sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd 

her  best. 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she 

thought 
"If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal 

robes. 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he 

fall." 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift 

of  him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers  ;  "  and  do  not 

shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your 

true  heart  ; 
Such  service  have  you  done  me,  that  I 

make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 

am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I 

can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face. 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to 

speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld 

her  wish, 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 


298 


ELAINE. 


Till  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  morn 

it  chanced 
He   found  her  in   among  the  garden 

yews, 
And   said,   "  Delay  no  longer,   speak 

your  wibli, 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day";  then  out 

she  brake ; 
" Going ?  and  we  shall  never  see  you 

more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold 

^Yord." 
"Speak  :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said, 

"  is  yours." 
Then   suddenly  and  passionately  she 

spoke : 
"  I  have  gone  mad.     I  love  you :  let 

me  die." 
"  Ah  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "what 

is  this  ?" 
And  innocently   extending   her  white 

arms, 
"Your  love,"  she  said,  "your  love  — 

to  be  your  wife  " 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Had  I  chos'n 

to  wed, 
I    had    been    wedded    earlier,    sweet 

Elaine  : 
But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of 

mine." 
"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  I  care  not  to  be 

wife, 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro' 

the  world." 
And    Lancelot   answer'd,    "  Nay,    the 

world,  the  world. 
All   ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid 

heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a 

tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation  —  nay. 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  broth- 
er's love. 
And    your    good    father's   kindness." 

And  she  said, 
"  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your 

face  — 
Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are 

done." 
"  Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "  ten 

times  nay  ! 
This  is  not  love :  but  love's  first  flash 

in  youth, 


Most  common  :  yea  I  know  it  of  mine 

own  self: 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own 

self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flowei 

of  life 
To   one   more   fitly   yours,    not  thrice 

your  age  : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and 

sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood. 
More     specially     should     your    good 

knight  be  poor. 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  terri- 
tory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the 

seas. 
So  that  would  make  you  happy:  fur- 
thermore, 
Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  you  were  my 

blood, 
In   all   your  quarrels  will   I   be   your 

knight. 
This  will  1  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your 

sake. 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She   neither  blush'd  nor   shook,    but 

deathly-pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 

replied, 
"  Of  all  this  will  I  nothing  "  ;  and  so  fell. 
And   thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to 

her  tower. 

Then   spake,  to  whom   thro'  those 

black  walls  of  yew 
Their    talk    had   pierced,    her  father, 

"  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom 

dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lance- 
lot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  pa.ssion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"  That  were  against  me  :  what  I  can  I 

will"; 
And    there    that    day    remain'd,   and 

toward  even 
Sent  for  his  shield :  full  meekly   rose 

the  maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 

shield ; 


ELAINE. 


aw 


Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon 

the  stones. 
Unclasping  lUuig  the  casement  back, 

and  look'd 
Down   on  his  helm,    irom  which  her 

sleeve  had  gone. 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 

sound  ; 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  look- 
ing at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

his  hand. 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he 

used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone   the  maiden 

sat: 
His  very  shield  was  gone  ;  only  the 

case. 
Her  o\\Ti  poor  work,  her  empty  labor, 

left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured 

wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low 

tones 
"  Have  comfort,"    whom  she  greeted 

quietly 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying, "  Peace 

to  thee 
Sweet    sister,"    whom    she    answer'd 

with  all  calm. 
But  when    they   left    her    to    herself 

again. 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  dis- 
tant field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  call'd  ; 

the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she 

mixt 
Her    fancies    with    the    sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  meanings  of  the 

wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little 

song. 
And  call'd  her  song  "The   Song  of 

Love  and  Death," 
And  sang  it  :  sweetly  could  she  make 

and  sing. 


"  Sweet  is  true  love,   tho'  given  in 
vain,  in  vain  : 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to 

pain  : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  \. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter 
death  must  be  : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death 
to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me 

die. 

"  Sweet  Love,  that  seems  not  made 
to  fide  away. 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us 
loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  whicli  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that 

could  be  ; 
I  needs  must  tbllow  death,  who  calls 

for  me  ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die." 


High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her 

voice,  and  this. 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That   shook   her  tower,   the   brothers 

heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "Hark  the  Phantom 

of  the  house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and 

call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurrj'  and 

fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  bloodred  light 

of  dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  slirilling  **  Let 

me  die  !  " 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we 

know 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so 

well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not 

why. 
So  dwelt  the  father  on   her  face  and 

thought 
"  Is  this  Elaine  ?  "  till  back  the  maiden 

fell. 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and 

lay, 


300 


ELAINE. 


Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her 

ej'es. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Sweet  brothers,  yes- 
ternight 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods, 
And  when  you  used  to  take  me  with 

the  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's 

boat. 
Only  you  would  not  pass  beyond  the 

cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :   there  you 

fixt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  I  cried  because  you  would  not 

pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  you  would  not ;  but  this  night 

I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said,  '  Now  shall  I  have 

my  will '  : 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish 

remain'd. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at 

last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood. 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all. 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at 

me  ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder 

at  me, 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse 

at  me  ; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells 

to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me 

one  : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 

my  love. 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity 

me. 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome 

me. 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest  ! " 

*'  Peace,"  said  her  father,    "  O  my 
child,  you  seem 
Light-headed,  fo"-  what  force  is  yours 
to  go, 


So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore  would 

you  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns 

us  all  ? » 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave 

and  move. 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"  I  never  loved  him :  an  I  meet  with 

him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be. 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike 

him  down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him 

dead. 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 

house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  re- 
ply) 
"  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor 

be  wroth, 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 
highest." 

"  Highest  ? "  the   Father  answer'd, 

echoing  "  highest." 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her.) 

"  Nay, 
Daughter,   I  know  not  what  you  call 

the  highest  ; 
But  this  I   know,   for  all   the   people 

know  it. 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open 

shame  : 
And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low?  " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
"  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick 

am  I 
For  anger  :  these  are  slanders  :  never 

yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 

foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  :  so  let  me 

pass. 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's 

best 


ELAIXE.                                                      301 

And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  re- 

To take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 

turn  : 

He  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 

Vet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to 

1   go   in   state   to  court,  to  meet  the 

live, 

Queen. 

Tlianks,  but  you  work  against  yoiu:  own 

There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own 

desire  ; 

self. 

lor  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you 

And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so 

say 

well. 

I  should'but  die  the  sooner  ;  wherefore 

And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man 

cease. 

alone 

?weet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly 

Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and 

man 

he 

Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean. 

Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the 

and  die." 

doors." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 

She   ceased :   her   father  promised  ; 

and  gone. 

whereupon 

S.he  with  a"  face,  bright  as  for  sin  for- 

She grew  so  cheerful  that  lliey  deem'd 

given, 

her  death 

)iesought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  de- 

Was  rather   in    the    fantasy  than  the 

vised 

blood. 

A  letter,  word  for  word ;  and  when  he 

But  ten  slow  iiiornings  past,  and  on  the 

ask'd 

eleventh 

'  Is  it  tor  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear 

Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  iier  hand. 

lord  ? 

And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she 

I'h.en  will  I  bear  it  gladly  "  ;   she  re- 

died. 

plied, 

So  that  d-iy  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

'  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all 

the  world, 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from 

i^Lit  I  myself  must  bear  it."    Then  he 

underground. 

wrote 

Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with 

The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being 

bent  brows 

writ 

Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 

And  folded,  "  0  sweet  father,  tender 

Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  held,  that 

and  true. 

shone 

Deny  me  not,"  she  said  —  "you  never 

Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon 

yet 
Denied    my    fancies  —  this,    however 

the  barge. 

Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 

strange. 

lay. 

My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 

'I'here  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the 

A  Kttle  ere  I  die,  and  clo.se  the  hand 

house, 

Upon  it ;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in.death. 

Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 

And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out 

Winking  liis  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his 

my  heart. 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I 

face. 

So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot 

died 

took 

For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like 

And  on  tiie  black  decks  laid  her  in  lier 

the  Queen's 

bed. 

For  richness,    and  me   also   like   the 

Set  in  iier  hand  a  lily,  o'er  lier  hung 

Queen 

'I'he  silken  cas#  with  braided  blazon- 

In  all   1   have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on 

ings. 

it. 

And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 

And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot- 

to  her. 

bier 

"  Sister,  farewell  forever,"  and  again, 

3o^                                                       ELAINE. 

'*  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in 

Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for 

tears. 

you. 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and 

These  jewels,   and   make   me    happy, 

the  dead 

making  them 

Steer'd  by  tlie  dumb  went  upward  with 

An   armlet   for   the  roundest   arm  on 

the  flood  — 

earth. 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 

Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the 

The  letter  —  all  her  bright  hair  stream- 

swan's 

ing  down  — 

Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's  :  these  are 

And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 

words  : 

Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in 

Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 

white 

In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship 

All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured 

of  it 

face 

Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.     Such 

Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as 

sin  in  words 

dead 

Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon :  but. 

But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'   she 

my  Queen, 

smiled. 

I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 

Our  bond,  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 

wife. 

craved 

Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 

Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 

To  make  up  that  defect:   let  rumors 

The  price  of  half  a  realm,   his  costly 

be: 

gift, 

When  did  not  rumors  fly?  these,  as  I 

Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 

trust 

and  blow. 

That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  noble- 

With deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 

ness, 

own. 

I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  be- 

The  nine-years-fought-for   diamonds  : 

lieve." 

for  he  saw 

One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 

While   thus   he   spoke,    half  tum'd 

Queen 

away,  the  Queen 

Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen 

Drake  from  the  vast  oiiel-embowering 

agreed 

vine 

With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them 

She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but 

off, 

that  he. 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood 

Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh   kiss'd 

was  green  ; 

her  feet 

Then,    when  he   ceased,  in   ore   cold 

For  loyal   awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong 

passive  hand 

eye 

Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the 

The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace, 

gems 

In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 

walls, 
And  parted,    laughing   in   his  courtly 

There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied : 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 

heart. 

Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side. 

Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and 

Vine-clad,   of  Arthur's   palace  toward 

wife. 

the  stream. 

This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill, 

They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  ut- 

It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 

ter'd,  "  Queen, 

This  many  a  year  have    done  despite 

Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my 

and  wrong 

joy. 

To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 

ELAIXE. 


303 


1  did  acknowledge  nobler.     What  are 

these? 
Diamonds  for  me  !  they  had  been  thrice 

their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your 

own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.    Not  for  me  ! 
For  her  !  for  your  new  fancy.  Only  this 
Grant  me,  I  pray  you :  have  your  joys 

apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you 

keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 

courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move  and 

rule  : 
So  cannot  speak  my  mind.     An  end  to 

this  ! 
A  strange  one  !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 

pearls ; 
Deck  her  with  these ;  tell  her,  she  shines 

me  down  : 
An   armlet   for   an   arm   to  which  the 

Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O   as   much  fairer — as  a. faith   once 

fair 
Was  richer    than   these    diamonds  — 

hers  not  mine  — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  him- 
self. 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will  — 
She  shall  not  have  them" 

Spying  which  she  seized, 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 

for  heat, 
Flung  them,    and  down  they  flash'd, 

and  smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd, 

as  It  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 

away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 

disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 

ledge. 
Close  underneath  his  ej'es,  and  right 

across 
Where   these   had  fallen,  slowly  past 

the  barge 


Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,   like   a  star  in   blackest 
night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not, 

burst  away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ;  and  the 

barge 
On    to    the    palace -doorway    sliding; 

paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,  and  kept  the 

door ;  to  whom. 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier. 
Were  added  mouths  that   gajjed,  and 

eyes  that  ask'd 
"  What  is  it  ? "  but  that  oarsman's  hag- 
gard face. 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken 

rocks 
On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and 

they  said, 
"  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and 

she. 
Look    how    she     sleeps  —  the     Fairy 

Queen,  so  fair  ! 
Yea,  but  how  pale  !   what  are   they? 

flesh  and  blood  ? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land  ? 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King, 

the  King 
Came  girt  witli  knights  :  then  turn'd  the 

tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and 

rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the 

doo's. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And   jiure    Sir   Galahad   to  uplift  the 

maid  ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  won- 

der'd  at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at 

her. 
At  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied 

her  : 
But   Arthur  spied    the    letter  in   her 

hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  bral;e  seal,  and  read  it; 

this  wai  all : 


304 


ELAINE. 


"  Alost   noble  lord,   Sir  Lancelot  oi 

the  Lake, 
I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  fare- 
well, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been 

my  death. 
And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too.  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read. 
And   ever  in   the    reading,   lords   and 

dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who 

read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at 

times. 
So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that 

her  lips, 
Who   had   devised  the   letter,  moved 

again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot   to 

them  all  : 
"  My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 

hear, 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's 

death 
Right  heavy  am  I  ;  for  good  she  was 

and  true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all 

love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again ; 
Not  at   my  years,  however  it  hold  in 

youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I 

gave 
No  cause,    not  willingly,   for  such   a 

love : 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony. 
Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  him- 
self 
Besought   me   to  be  plain  and  blunt, 

and  use, 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature  :  what  I  could,  I  did. 
I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell. 
Tho',  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would 

have  died. 


I   might   have  put  my  wits  to  some 

rough  use, 
And  help'd  her  from  herself" 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 

storm ), 
"  You  might  at  least  have  done  her  so 

much  grace. 
Fair  lord,  as  would   liave  help'd  her 

from  her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 

hers  fell. 
He  adding, 

"  Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could 

not  be. 
Then   might   she   follow  me  thro'  the 

world,  she  ask'd ; 
It  could  not  be.    I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was   but   the   flash   of   youth,   would 

darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  —  then 

would  I, 
More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded, 

poor. 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  terri- 
tory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 

seas. 
To  keep   them   in   all  joyance  :  more 

than  this 
I  could  not  ;  this  she  would  not,  and 

she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "  O 
my  knight. 

It  will  be  to  your  worship,  as  my 
knight, 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table 
Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worship- 
fully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in 
all  the  realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly 
went 

The  marshall'd  order  of  their  Table 
Round, 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to 
see 

The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  un- 
known. 


ELAINE. 


305 


Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  ob- 
sequies. 

And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a 
Queen. 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her 
comely  head 

Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 

Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "Let 
her  tomb 

Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 

And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her 
feet 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 

And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voy- 
age 

For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her 
tomb 

In  letters  gold  and  azure  1 "  which  was 
wrought 

Thereafter ;  b»it  when  now  the  lords 
and  dames 

And  people,  from  the  high  door  stream- 
ing, brake 

Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the 
Queen, 

Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he 
moved  apart. 

Drew  near,  and  sigh'd  in  passing 
"  Lancelot, 

Forgive  me ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 

He  answer'd  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

"  That  IS  love's  curse ;  pass  on,  my 
Queen,  forgiven." 

But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy 
brows 

Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  affection 
flung 

One  arm  about  his  neck,  and  spake  and 
sa  d  : 

"  Lancelot,    my    Lancelot,    thou  in 
whom  I  have 
Most  joy  and  m  ist  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my 

side. 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at 

the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-prac- 
tised knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name. 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a 
man 


Made  to  be  loved  ;  —  but  now  I  would 

to  Clod, 
For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of 

thee, 
Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 

sliaped,  it  seems. 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her 

face. 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead. 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a 

lonely  man 
Wifelabs  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Bom  to  ihe  glory  of  tliy  name  and  fame. 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of 

the  Lake." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  Fair  she 

was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  v.ish   )'Our  knights 

to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an 

eye. 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart,  — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  tree  love  will  not 

be  bound." 

"  Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest," 

said  the  King. 
"  Let  love  be  free  ;  free  love  is  for  the 

best : 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 

death. 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a 

love 
Clothed   m  so  pure  a  loveliness?  yet 

thee 
She  fail'd  10  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think, 
Unboundasyet,  and  gentle,  as  1  know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but 

he  went. 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
S.it  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watcii'd 
I'he  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his 

eyes 
And  saw  the  barge   that  brought  her 

moving  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and 

said 
Low  in  himself,  "  Ah  simple  heart  and 

sweet. 


3o6 


GUINEVERE. 


You  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a 

love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.    "Pray 

for  thy  soul  ? 
Ay,  that  will  I.    Farewell  too — now  at 

last  — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.   '  Jealousy  m  love  '  ? 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jeal- 
ous pride? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love. 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name 

and  fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name 

to  me  ? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 

reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  lake 
Stole  from  his  mother  —  as   the   story 

runs  — 
She   chanted   snatches   of  mysterious 

song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 

morn 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my 
,  child, 

1  As  a  king's  son,  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would    she    had   drown'd    me   in   it, 

where'er  it  be  ! 
For  what  am  I  ?  what  profits  me  my 

name 
Of  greatest  knight?     I    fought  for  it, 

and  have  it : 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none  ;  to  lose  it, 

pain  ; 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me  :  but  what  use 

in  it  ? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 

known  ? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming 

great  ? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,   a 

man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart !  I  needs  must 

break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me :  not 

without 
She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it  ? 

nay, 
Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then 

may  God, 
I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  bv  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 


And   fling  me   deep  in  that  forgotten 

mere. 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the 

hills." 

So  groan'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorse- 
ful pain. 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court, 

and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little 

maid, 
A  novice  :  one  low  light  betwixt  them 

burn'd 
BluiT'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all 

abroad, 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full. 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the 

face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 

was  ?till. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of 

flight 
Sir  Modred ;    he   the  nearest  to  the 

King, 
His  nephew,  ever  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 

throne. 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance  :  for 

this. 
He  chill'd  the  popular  praiaes  of  the 

King 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment ; 
And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the 

White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ; 

and  sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end;  and  all  his 

aims 
Were   sharpen'd    by   strong   hate    for 

Lancelot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when 
all  the  court, 


GUINEVERE. 


307 


Green-suited,   but  with  plumes    that 

mock'd  the  May, 
Had  been,  tlieir  wont,  a-maying  and 

return'd, 
That  Mildred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and 

eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- 
wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandil  if  he  mi;j;ht. 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sxt  betwixt 

her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst;  and  more 

than  this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where    he   couch  d,  and  as  the 

gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  cater- 
pillar. 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 
Of  grasses   Lancelot  pluck'd   him   by 

the  heel. 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way  ; 
But   when  he  knew  the    Prince    tho' 

marr'd  with  dust. 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad 

man, 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and 

these 
Full   knightly   without   scorn ;    for   in 

those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in 

scorn ; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in 

him 
By  those  whom  God  had   made  full- 

limb'd  and  tall. 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect. 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.     So  Sir  Lancelot 

holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice 

or  thrice 
Full    sharply    smote    his    knees,    and 

smiled,  and  went : 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled   in    him   and   ruffled    all    his 

heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day 

long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 


This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 

laugh'd 
Lightly,   to  think  of  Modred's  dusty 

fall. 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who 

cries 
"  I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 

grave"; 
Then  lauj;h'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for 

indeed 
She  half- foresaw  that   he,   the   subtle 

beast. 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 

and  hers 
Would  be  forevermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in 

Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy 

face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent 

eye  : 
Henceforward   too,   the   Powers    that 

tend  the  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot 

die, 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time 

for  hours. 
Beside   the    placid   breathings   of  the 

King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 

went 
Before  her,  or  a  vagne  spiritual  fear  — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creak- 
ing doors. 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted 

house. 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  ihr 

wails  — 
Held  her  awake :  or  if  she  slept,  she 

dream'd 
An  awful  dream;  for  then  she  seem'd 

to  stand 
On  some  vast  pl.-iin  before  a  .setting  sim. 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at 

her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow 

flew 
Before  it,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she 

tum'd  — 
When   lo  !    her  own,  that  broadening 

from  her  feet. 
And  blackening,  »wallow'd  all  the  land 

and  ir  it 


3o8                                                  GUINE 

VERE. 

Far  cities  bt»mt,  and  with  a  cry  she 

"Mine  be  the  shame;  mine  was  the 

woke. 

sin  :  but  rise. 

And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but 

And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  : 

grew ; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 

There  will  1  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall 

end, 

King,                                               \ 

There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against 

And  trustful  courtesies  of  household 

the  world." 

life, 

She  answer'd,  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold 

Became  her  Lane  ;  and  at  the  last  she 

me  so  ? 

said, 

Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 

"  O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine 

wells. 

own  land, 

Would  God,  that  thou   couldst    hide 

For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 

me  from  myself! 

And  if  we  meet  again,  so.,ie  evii  chance 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and 

Will   make    the    smouldering   scandal 

thou 

break  and  blai.e 

Unvvedded:  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us 

Before   the  people,   and  our  lord  the 

fly, 

King." 
And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  re- 

For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary. 

And  bide  my  doom. ''    So  Lancelot  got 

main'd. 

her  horse. 

And  still  they  met  and  met.     Again 

Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his 

she  said, 

own. 

•'  0  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 

And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 

hence." 

There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping  :  for 

And   then   they  were   agreed  upon  a 

he  past, 

nisfht 

Love-loyal   to   the   least  wish   of  the 

(When  the  good  King  should  not  be 

Queen, 

there)  to  meet 

Back  to  his  land  ;  but  she  to  Almes- 

And  part  forever.     Passion-pale  they 

bury 

met 

Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste 

And  greeted  :  hands  in  hands,  and  eye 
to  eye, 

andWeald, 

And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and 

Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they 

weald 

sat 

Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

Stammering  and  staring  ;  it  was  their 

them  moan : 

last  hour, 

And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  "  Too  late, 

A  madness  of  farewells.     And  Modred 

too  late  ! " 

brouglit 

Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 

His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the 

morn, 

tower 

A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying 

For  testimony;   and  crying  with  full 

high, 

voice. 

Croak'd,  and  she  thought,  "  He  spies  a 

"Traitor,  come  out,  ye   are   trapt   at 

field  of  death  ; 

last,"  amused 

For  now  the  heathen  of  the  Northern 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lion- 

Sea, 

like 

Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the 

Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  head- 

court. 

long,  and  he  fell 

Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the 

Stunn'd,   and  his  creatures  took  and 

land." 

bare  liim  off 

And  all  was  still :  then  she,  "The  end 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury 

is  come 

she  s]iake 

And  I  am  shamed  forever "  ;  and  he 

There  to  the  nuns,    and  said,  "  Mine 

saids 

enemies 

GUINEVERE. 


3*? 


Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sisterliood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  norask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her 

time 
To  tell  you  "  :  and  her  beauty,  grace, 

and  pnwer. 
Wrought  as  a  charra  upon  them,  and 

they  spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the 

nuns  ; 
Nor  with   them   mix'd,    nor  told   her 

name,  nor  sought. 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for 

shrift. 
But  communed  only  with   the   little 

maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heed- 
lessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself; 

but  now. 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,   that  Sir  Modred  had  usurjj'd 

the  realm, 
And  leagued  him  wMth  the    heathen, 

while  the  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot :  then  she 

thought, 
"  With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the 

King 
Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upon 

her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  "  Late  ! 

so  late  ! 
What    hour,    I    wonder,   now?"    and 

when  she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her;  "  Late, 

so  late  !" 
Which   when   she   heard,   the   Queen 

look'd  up,  and  said, 
"  O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 

weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little 

maid. 

"  Late,  late,  so  late  !  and  dark  the 

night  and  chill  ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !   but  we  can  enter 

still. 
Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 


"No  light  had  w^      o   '*ul  we  do 

repent ; 
And  learning  this,  th#  bridegroom  will 

relent. 
Too   late,   too  late  I    v»»  can.iot  enter 

now. 

"  No  light  :  so  late  I  s»nd  dark  and 

chill  the  night ! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too   late,   too  late  I    ye  cannot   enter 

now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet? 
()  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet  I 
No,  no,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  passion- 
ately, 

Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remember- 
ing 

Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept 
the  sad  Queen. 

Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to 
her  : 

"  O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no 

more  ; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so 

small. 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to 

obey. 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  giv- 
en— 
Comfort  your  sorrows ;  for  they  do  not 

flow 
From  evil  done  ;   right  sure  am  I  of 

that. 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateli- 

ness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 

the  King'.s 
And  weighing  find  them  less ;  for  gone 

is  lie 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot 

there. 
Round    that   strong   castle   where    he 

holds  the  Queen  ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of 

all. 
The  traitor — Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's 

grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen, 

and  realm. 


3IO                                                   GUINEVERE. 

Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any 

"  0  little  maid,   shut  in   by  nunnery 

of  ours. 

walls, 

For  me,  I  thank  the  saints  I  am  not 

What  canst  tliou  know  of  Kings  and 

great. 

Tables  Round, 

For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 

Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 

I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done  : 

signs 

None   knows   it,    and   my   tears   ha';e 

And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery?" 

brought  me  good. 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  Httle  ones 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulous- 

As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this 

ly: 

grief 

"  Yea,  but  I  know  :  the  land  was  full  of 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 

signs 

bear. 

And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the 

That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 

Queen. 

Silence,   they  cannot  weep   behind  a 

So   said   my  father,  and   himself  was 

cloud: 

knight 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 

Of  the  great  Table  —  at  the  founding 

About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked 

of  it  : 

Queen, 

And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and 

And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a 

he  said 

Queen, 

That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  may  be 

Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wicked- 

twain 

ness. 

After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he 

But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not 

heard 

be." 

Strange    music,    and   he  paused    and 

turning  —  there, 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd 

All  down  the   lonely  coast  of  Lyon- 

the Queen, 

nesse, 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 

Each with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his 

cent  talk?" 

But  openly  sheanswer'd,  "  Must  not  I, 

feet, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his 

He  saw  them  —  headland  after  head- 

lord. 

land  flame 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the 

Far  en  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west  : 

realm?" 

And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 

"Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "this  is  all 

swam. 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood 

woman's  grief. 

from  the  sea, 

That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 

And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  the 

Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table 

land, 

Round 

To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 

Which    good    King  Arthur    founded, 

cleft 

years  ago. 

INIade  answer,  sounding  like  a  distant 

With  signs  and  miracles  and  wondens. 

horn. 

there 

So  said  my  father — yea,  and  further- 

At  Camelot,    ere   the   coming   of  the 

more. 

Queen." 

Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit 

\\oods. 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 

Himself beheld  three  spirits  mad  with 

self  again, 

joy 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  fool- 

Come dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside 

ish  prate?" 
But   openly  she    spake    and    said    to 

flower, 

That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle 

her/ 

shakes 

GUINEVERE. 


3«i 


When  three  gray   linnets  wrangle  for 

the  seed  : 
And   still   at   evenings   on   before    his 

horse 
The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd  and 

broke 
Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheel'd 

and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the 

hall ; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd  ;  for  every 

knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he   long'd  for 

served 
By  hands  unseen  ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down   in    the    cellars   merry   bloated     | 

things  I 

Shoulder'd   the   spigot,  straddling  on     j 

the  butts 
While  the  wine  ran  :  so  glad  were  spirits 

and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  ihe  sinful  Queen." 

Then  spake  the  Queen,  and  somewhat 

bitterly, 
"  Were  they  so  glad  ?  ill  prophets  were 

they  all. 
Spirits  and  men  :  could  none  of  them 

foresee. 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the 

realm  ? " 

To  whom    the    novice    garrulously 

again  : 
"  Yea,  one,  a  bard  ;  of  whom  my  father 

said, 
Full   many  a  noble    war-song  had  he 

sung, 
Ev'n    in   the   presence  of  an  enemy's 

fleet. 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming 

wave  ; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops, 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 

hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back 

like  flame : 


So  said  my  father  —  and  that  night  the 

bar^ 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  ung 

the  King 
As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd 

at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlois : 
For   there    was    no    man   knew  from 

whence  he  came  ; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave 

broke 
All   down    the    thundering    shores   of 

Bude  and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven, 

and  then 
They   found   a  naked  child  upon  the 

sands 
Of  dark  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sea ; 
And  that  was  Arthur ;  and  they  fosier'd 

him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  ail  men,  like  his  birth  ;  and  could 

he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he 

sang. 
The  twain  together  well  might  change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 

harp, 
And  pale   he   tum'd,  and  rcel'd,  and 

would  have  fall'n. 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up  ;  nor  would 

he  tell 
His  vision  ;  but   what  doubt   that  he 

foresaw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot   and   the 

Queen.'" 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  "  Lo  !  they 
have  set  heron. 

Our  simple-seeming  At)l>ess  and  her 
nuns, 

To  play  u]>on  me,"  and  bow'd  her  head 
nor  spake. 

Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd 
hands. 

Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garru- 
lously, 

Said  the  pood  nuns  would  check  her 
eadding  tongue 

Full  often,  "  And,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 


312 


GUINEVERE. 


To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 
Unmannerly,    willi   prattling  and   the 

tales 
Whlclr-my  good  father  told  me,  check 

me  too  : 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory, 

one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would 

say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he 

died, 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers 

back, 
And  left  me  ;  but  of  others  who  remain. 
And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  courte- 
sy— 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss; — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while 

you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

King?" 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and 

answer'd  her, 
"  Sir   Lancelot,    as    became    a  noble 

knight. 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  oi^en  battle  or  thetilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,   and   the 

King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 

two 
Were  the  most  nobly-manner'd  men  of 

all ; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "be  manners 
such  fair  fruit  ? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs. 
The  most   disloyal   friend   in   all   the 
world." 

To  which  a  moumful  answer  made 
the  Queen, 

"O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nun- 
nery-walls. 

What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and 
all  its  lights 

And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all 
the  woe  ? 


If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble 
knight. 

Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  him- 
self, 

Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of 
fire, 

And  ^^•cep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to 
his  doom." 

"Yea,"    said    the   little   novice,  "I 

pray  for  both ; 
Cut  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that 

his. 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the 

King's, 
As    I    could   think,  sweet  lady,  yours 

would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 

Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler, 

hurt 
Whom  she  would  soothe,  and  harm'd 

where  she  would  heal ; 
For  here   a   sudden   flush  of  wrathful 

heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen, 

who  cried, 
"  Such   as  thou  art  be  never  maiden 

more 
Forever  I  thou   their  tool,    set   on    to 

plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And  traitress."     When  that   storm  of 

anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,   aghast  the    maiden 

rose, 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 

Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and 

fly, 

And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "  Get 
thee  hence  ! " 

Fled  frighted.  Then  that  other  left 
alone 

Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again. 

Saying  in  herself,  "  The  simple,  fearful 
child 

Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 
guilt 

Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 

But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  re- 
pent. 


GUINEVERE. 


3«3 


For   what   is  true  repentance   but   in 

thought  — 
Not  ev'n  in  inmost  thought  to  think 

again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 

to  us: 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him 

more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slippmg  back  upon   the  golden 

days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lan- 
celot came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 

man. 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  liis  and  her  retinue  moving,  they. 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  ( for 

the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 

dream'd, ) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  para- 
dise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd   the  heavens  upbreaking 

thro'  the  earth. 
And  on   from   hill  to  hill,  and  every 

day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The    silk  ^pavilions  of   King  Arthur 

raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ;  and  on  again. 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 

saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 

ship. 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  tlie 

King, 
Blaze   by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent 

well. 

But  when   the  Queen  immersed  in 

such  a  trance, 
And   moving    thro'    the    past   uncon- 

scioasly, 
Came  to  th.ii  point,  wiien  first  she  saw 

the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd 

to  find 


Her  journey    done,   glanced  at  him, 

thought  liim  cold. 
High,  self-contam'd,  and  passionless, 

not  like  him, 
"Not  like  my  Lancelot"  —  wliile  slie 

brooded  tims 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts 

again. 
There   rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the 

doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro*  the  nun- 
nery ran. 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  "  The  King.' 

She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,     listening ;     but     when 

armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer 

doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat 

she  fell. 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the 

tloor : 
There   with  her  milkwhite   arms  and 

shadtnvy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  dar'icness  from  the 

King : 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed 

feet 
Pause  by  her ;  then  came  silence,  then 

a  voice. 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tlio'  chang- 
ed the  King's. 

"  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of 

one 
I   honor'd,   happy,    desd    before    thy 

shame  ? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  \.>om  of  thee. 
The  children  bom  of  tiiee  are  sword 

and  fire. 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  un  of  laws. 
The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless 

hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 

Sea.  , 

Whom   L  wliile  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my 

right  arm. 
The   mightiest   of  my  knights,  abode 

with  me. 
Have  everj'wiiere   about   this  land  c'' 

Christ 
In   twelve  great  battles  rui"ii!«».   i**^^ 

thrown. 


3H 


GUINEVERE. 


And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I 

come  —  from  him, 
From    waging   bitter    war   with   him : 

and  he, 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse 

way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him 

left, 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the 

King 
Who   made   him  knight :  but  many  a 

knight  was  slain  ; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and 

kin 
ClaVe   to  him,  and   abode  in  his  own 

land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised 

revolt. 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealiy,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with 

me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part. 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom 

1  live, 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming 

on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be 

harm'd. 
Fear  not :  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till 

my  death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  projihecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  1  march  to  meet 

my  doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet 

to  me. 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to 

live  ; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my 

life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I 

show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou 

hast  sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their 

law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fill'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there 

a  deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random 

wrong. 
But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who 

drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm 

and  all 


The  realms  together  under  me,  their 

Head, 
In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men. 
To  serve  as  model  tor  the  mighty  world, 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  tiiem  lay  their  hands  in  mine 

and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience 

as  their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 

Christ,  ' 

To    ride    abroad    redressing    human 

wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to 

it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 
And  worship   her  by   years  of  noble 

deeds. 
Until  they  won  her  ;  for  indeed  I  knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable 

words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes 

a  man. 
And  all   this  throve  until   I  wedded 

thee  ! 
Believing  "  lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to 

feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy." 
Then    came    thy    shameful    sin    with 

Lancelot  ; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and 

Isolt ; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  might- 
iest knights. 
And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair 

names, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  ob- 
tain, 
And  all  thro'  thee  !  so  that  this  life  of 

mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe 

and  wrong. 
Not  greatly  care  to  lose ;    but  rather 

think 
How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he 

live, 


GUIXEVERB.                                                  3,5 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 

He  paused,  and  in   the   pause   she 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my 

crept  an  inch 

knights, 

Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble 

feet. 

deeds 

Far  oflFa  solitary  trumpet  blew. 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 
For  which  of  us,   who  might  be  left, 

Then  waiting  by  the  doors   the  war- 

horse  neigh'd 

could  speak 

As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance 

again  : 

at  thee? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of 

"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge 

Usk 

thy  crimes. 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room 

I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guine- 

to room. 

vere, 

And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with 

I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 

thee 

To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament. 

head. 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  tlie  stair. 

My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my 

For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not 

feet. 

love  thy  lord, 

The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for 

on  that  fierce  law. 

thee. 

The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming 

I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

death. 

Yet  must  I  leare  thee,  woman,  to  thy 

(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here) 

shame. 

is  past. 

I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public 

The  pang  — whi  h  while  I  weigh'd  thy 

foes 

heart  with  one 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's 

Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in 

sake. 

thee. 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the 

Made  my  tears  bum  —  is  also  past,  in 

wife 

part. 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule 

And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd.  and  I, 
Lo !  I  forgive  tlie^,  as  Kternal  God 

the  house : 

For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 

Forgives :  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul 

Her    station,    taken    everywhere    for 

the  rest. 

pure. 

But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all    I 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to 

loved? 

men. 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 

play 

crowd. 

Not    knowing  I    O    imperial-moulded 

.   Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes, 

form. 

and  saps 

And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore. 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  llie 
pulse 

Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with 

thee  — 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the 

I  cannot  touch  thy  lip.s,  they  are  not 

young. 

mine, 

Worst 'of  the  worst  were  that  man  he 

But  Lancelot's :  nay,  they  never  were 

that  reigns ! 

the  King's. 

Better   the    King's  waste  hearth  and 

I  cannot  take  thy  hand ;   that  too  is 

aching  heart 

flesh.                             . 

Than   thou' reseated   in   thy  place   of 

And  in  the  flesh  ihnu  hast  sinn  d  ;  and 

light, 

mine  own  flesh. 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 
bane." 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted, 
cries 

3i6                                                GUINEVERE. 

'  I  loathe  thee  ' ;  yet  not  less,  0  Guine- 

Rose the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  an- 

vere, 

guish  found 

For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 

The   casement :    "  Perad venture,"   so 

My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into 

she  thought. 

my  life 

"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee 

seen." 

^tiil. 

And  lo,   he  sat  on  horseback  at  the 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee 

door! 

still. 

And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each 

Perchance,  and    so    thou    purify   thy 

a  light 

soul, 

Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

And  so  thou  lean   on  our  fair  father 

the  Queen, 

Christ, 

To  guard  and  foster  her  forevermore. 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are 

And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm 

pure 

was  lovver'd, 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and 

To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon 

thou 

clung 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine. 

Of  Britain  ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 

and  know 

Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she 

I   am  thine   husband  — not  a  smaller 

saw. 

soul. 

Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.    Leave  me 

lights. 

that. 

The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 

I   charge   thee,   my  last  hope.     Now 

ship 

must  I  hence. 

Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 

Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trum- 

fire. 

pet  blow  : 

And  even  then  he  tum'd;  and  more 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead 

and  more 

mine  hosts 

The   moony  vapor  rolling  round   the 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the 

King, 

west. 

Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in 

Where  I  must  strike  against  my  sister's 

it. 

son. 

Enwound  him  fold  bj-^  fold,  and  made 

Leagued  with  the  lords  of  the  White 

him  gray 

Horse  and  knights 

And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 

Once  mine,  and  strike  him  dead,  and 

Before    her,  moving  ghostlike   to   his 

meet  myself 

doom. 

Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious 

doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the 

cried  aloud, 

event ; 

"  0  Arthur  !  "   there  her  voice  brake 

But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 

suddenly, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  ncAmore, 

Then  —  as  a  stream  that  spouting  from 

Farewell  ! " 

a  cliff 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet. 

Fails  in  mid-air,  but  gathering  at  the 

She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

base 

her  neck, 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 

And,  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen 

vale  — 

head, 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 

"Gone— -my  lord  ! 

blest. 

Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be 

slain  ! 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could  not 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps 

were  gone,     • 

speak. 

And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door  ! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a  hght 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the  Queen 


GUIXEVERE.                                                 3,7 

Farewell  ?    I  should  have  answer'd  his 

That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light  — 
I    wanted   warmth  and  color  wiiich  I 

farewell. 

His  mercy  choked  me.    Gone,  my  lord 

found 

the  King, 

In  Lancelot  —  now  I  see  thee  what  thou 

My  own  true  lord  !  how  dare  I  call  him 

art. 

mine  ? 

Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 

The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 

too. 

And  makes  me  one  pollution :  he,  the 

Not   Lancelot,  nor  another.     Is  their 

King, 

none 

Call'd  me  polluted  :  shall  I  kill  myself? 
What  help  in  that  ?    1  cannot  kill  my 

Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so 

late? 

sin. 

Now — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ? 

If  soul   be   soul ;   nor  can  I  kill   my 

none : 

shame  ; 

Myself  must   tell    him    in   that   purer 

No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 

life. 

The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

But  now  it  were  too  daring.     Ah  my 

to  months,     ^ 

God, 

The  months  will  add  themselves  and 

What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair 

make  the  years. 

world. 

The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries. 

Had  I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature 

And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 

here? 

I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 

It  was  my  duty   to  have  loved    the 

Let  the  world  be  ;   that  is  but  of  the 

highest : 

world. 

It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  : 

What  else  ?  what  hope  ?  I  think  there 

It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I 

was  a  hope, 

seen. 

Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when 

of  hope ; 

we  see  it. 

His  hope  he  call'd  it ;   but  he  never 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

mocks. 

Here  her  hand 

For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 

Grasp' d,  made  her  veil  her  eyes  :  she 

And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath 

look'd  and  saw 

forgiven 

The  novice,   weeping,  suppliant,  and 

My  wickedness  to  him,   and  left  me 

said  to  her. 

hope 

"Yea,littlemaid,foram /not  forgiven?" 

That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  dosvn 

Then  glancing  up  beiield  the  holy  nuns 

sin 

All  round  her,  weeping  :  and  her  licart 

And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heav- 

was loosed 

ens 

Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these 

Before  hi'j;h  God.    Ah  great  and  gentle 

lord, 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a 

and  said : 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one, 

saint 

who  broke 

Among    his    warring    senses,    to    thy 

The   vast   design  and  purpose  of  the 

knights  — 

King. 

To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride, 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nun- 

th.it took 

nery-walls. 

Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 

Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 

Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised 

'Shame.' 

the  height 

I  must  not  scorn  myself :  he  loves  me 

To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not 

still. 

clitnb  — 

Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me 

I  thou;4ht  I  could  not  breathe  in  that 

>till. 

tine  air 

So  let  me,  if  ycu  do  not  shudder  at  mc 

3i8                                            ENOCH 

ARDEN. 

Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous 

you ; 

day, 

Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun 

Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 

like  you  ; 

King." 

Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 

your  feasts ; 

She   said :  they  took  her  to  them- 

Grieve with  your  griefs,  not  grieving 

selves;  and  she 

at  your  joys, 

Still   hoping,    fearing    "  Is   it   yet  too 

But   not   rejoicing ;  mingle  with  your 

late.'" 

rites ; 

Dwelt   with   them,   till  in   time   their 

Pray  and  be  pray'd  for  ;  lie  before  your 

Abbess  died. 

shrines ; 

Then  she,  tor  her  good  deeds  and  her 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house  ; 

pure  life. 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 

dole 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 

To  poor  sick   psople,   richer    in    his 

borne. 

eyes 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess 

Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I ; 

lived 

And  treat  their   loathsome  hurts  and 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  aq 

heal  mine  own  ; 

Abbess,  past 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is 

prayer 

peace. 

ENOCH    ARDEN. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left 

And   Enoch  Arden,   a  rough  sailor's 

a  chasm  ; 

lad 

And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow 

Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck, 

sands  ; 

play'd 

Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 

Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the 

In  cluster  ;  then  a  moulder'd  church  ; 

shore. 

and  higher 

Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing- 

A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd 

nets. 

mill; 

Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  up- 

And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray 

drawn  ; 

down 

And   built   their  castles  of  dissolving 

With  Danish   barrows ;  and   a  hazel- 

sand 

wood, 

To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following 

By  autumn  nutters  haimted,  flourishes 

up 

Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

And  flymg  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 

'I'he  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years 

ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the 

cliff: 

Lee, 

In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping 

The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 

house. 

And    Philip    Ray,   the    miller's    only 

Enoch  was  host  one  day,   Philip  the 

son, 

next. 

•m 


EXOCH  ARDE.V. 


319 


While  Annie  still  was  mistress  ;  but  at 
times 

Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a 
week  : 

"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little 
wife." 

"Mine  too,"  said  Philip,  "turn  and 
tuni  about  "  : 

When,  ifiheyquarrell'd,  Enoch  strong- 
er-made 

Was  master :  then  would  Philip,  his 
blue  eyes 

All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wTath  of 
tears. 

Shriek  out,  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and 
at  this 

The  little  wife  would  weep  for  com- 
pany, 

And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her 
sake. 

And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood 

past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending 

sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his 

love. 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence  ;  and  the 

pirl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him  ; 
But  she  loved  Enoch  ;  tho'  she  knew  it 

not. 
And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it     Enoch 

set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes. 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost. 
To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a 

home 
For  Annie  :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at 

last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 
A  carefuUer  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten 

coast 
Than  Enoch.     Likewise  had  he  served 

a  year 
On   board  a  merchantman,  and  made 

himself 
Full  sailor  ;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd 

a  life 
From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down- 

streaminz  seas  : 


And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favor- 
abl  V  : 

And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-andtwen- 
tieth  May 

He  purchased  his  o^^•n  boat,  and  made 
a  home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  half-way 
up 

The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  to- 
ward the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide. 
The  younger  people  making  holiday. 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great 

and  small. 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.     Philip 

stay'd 
i     (  His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
Ail  hour  behind  ;  but  as  he  climb'd  the 

hill, 
i     Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 
]  began 

I     To  feather  toward  the  hollc^,  saw  the 
I  pair, 

Enoch    and    Annie,    sitting    hand-in- 
hand. 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire. 
That  bum'd    as  on  an  altar.     Philip 

look'd. 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his 

doom  : 
Then,   as    their   faces  drew  together, 

jjroan'd. 
And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded 

life 
Crept  down   into  the  hollows  of  the 

wood : 
There,   while   the   rest   were  loud   in 

merry-making. 
Had  his  d.irk  hour   unseen,  and  rose 

and  past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells. 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy 
years. 

Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  com- 
petence. 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil  : 

With  children  ;  first  a  daughter.  In 
him  woke. 


320 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble 

wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers  ;  a  wish 

renew'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While   Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful 

seas. 
Or  often  journeying  landward ;  for  in 

truth 
Enoch's    white    horse,    and    Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  win- 
ter gales, 
Not  only  to    the    market-cress  were 

known, 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp. 
And   peacock-yewtree    of   the    lonely 

Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  minis- 
tering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things 

human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow 

port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea  ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering 

on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and 

fell : 
A  hmb  was  broken  when  they  lifted 

liim ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his 

wife  _  - 

Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs :  and  on 

him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing 

man, 
Yet   lying  thus    inactive,    doubt    an^ 

gloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the 

night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
And  her,   he  loved,  a  beggar:  then  he 

pray'd, 


"  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes 

to  me." 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that 

Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance. 

Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued 
him, 
j     Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 
I     And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would 
he  go  ? 

1'here  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 
sail'd, 

Sail'd  from  this  port.     Would  Enoch 
have  the  place  ? 

And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it. 

Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance 

appear' d 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little 

cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing :  yet  the 

wife  — 
When  he  was  gone  —  the   children  — 

what  to  do  ? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 

plans  ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her 

well  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weath- 

er'd  in  her ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman   knows 

his  horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what 

she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth 

in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their 

wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 

was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder  ? 

SO 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ?  yea  twice 

or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life. 
Have   all  his  pretty  young  ones  edu- 
cated. 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his 
own. 


"While  Annie  seem'd  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising." 


EXOCH  ARDEN. 


3J« 


Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined 
all: 

Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 
pale, 

Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest- 
born. 

Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry. 

And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 

Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all 
his  limbs, 

Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled 
fatherlike. 

But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  pur- 
poses 

To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he 
spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 

had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought   against  his 

will : 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she. 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear, 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  re- 

new'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  logo. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 

vain  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend, 

Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and 
set  his  hand 

To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting- 
room 

With  shelf  and  comer  for  the  goods  and 
stores. 

So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at 
home. 

Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and 
axe. 

Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to 
hear 

Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd 
and  rang, 

Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  c.ireful 
hand,  — 

The  space  was  narrow, — havingorder'd 
all 


,     Almost  as  neat   and  close  as  Nature 
I  packs 

Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused  ; 

and  he, 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to 

the  last. 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  mom. 

And  Enoch   faced   this  morning  of 

farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.     All  his  Annie'.-. 

fears, 
Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to 

him. 
Yet   Enoch   as    a  brave    God-fearing 

man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mys- 
tery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in- 

God, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and 

babes 
Whatever  came  to  him  :  and  then  he 

said, 
"Annie,  this   voyage  by  the  grace  of 

GtKl 

Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for 

me, 
For  I  '11  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you 

know  it." 
Then    lightly    rocking    baby's  cradle, 

"  and  he. 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  ior  1  love  him  all  the  better  for 

it  — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my 

knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts. 
And  m.ike  him  merry,  wiicn    I  come 

home  again. 
Come  Aimie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I 

go-" 

Him  running  on  thus  hojxjfuJly  .she 

heard. 
And  almost  hoped  herself;  but  when 

he  turn'd 
The  current  of  his  ta'k  to  graver  things 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On   providence  and  trust  in    Heaven, 

she  heard, 
Heard   and    not    heard    him ;    as   the 

village  girl, 


322 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


I        Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the 
.   spring, 
Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 

her, 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  over- 
flow. 

At  length  she  spoke,  "  O  Enoch,  you 

are  wise  ; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That   I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no 

more." 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "  I  shall 
look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day);  get  you  a  sea- 
man's glass, 
Spy  out  my  tace,  and  laugh  at  all  your 
fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  mo- 
ments came, 
"Annie,  my  girl,  cheer   up,    be  com- 
forted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again. 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must 

go- 
And  fear  no  more  forme  ;  or  if  you  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God  ;  that  anchor 

holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  ?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him?  and  the  sea  is 

His, 
The  sea  is  His  :  He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose. 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping 

wife. 
And  kiss'd   his  wonder-stricken  little 

ones ; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 

slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness. 
When    Annie   would  have  raised  him 

Enoch  said, 
"Wake  him  rot;  let  him  sleep;  how 

should  the  child 
Remember  this?"   and  kiss'd  him  in 

his  cot. 
But   Annie   from  her  baby's  forehead 

dipt 
A  tiny  cur),  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 


Thro'  all  his  future  ;  but  now  hastily 

caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 

his  way. 

She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  men- 
tion'd,  came, 

Borrow'd  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain  :  per- 
haps 

She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her 
eye ; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremu- 
lous ; 

She  saw  him  not :  and  while  he  stood 
on  deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel 
past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip,  of  the  vanishing 

sail 
She  watch 'd  it,  and  departed  weeping 

for  him  ; 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence  as 

his  grave. 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with 

his. 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being 

bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 
And    still    foreboding    "  What   would 

Enoch  say?" 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares 

for  less 
Than  what   she  gave  in  buying  what 

-   she  sold : 
She   fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it ; 

and  thus, 
Expectant   of  that  news  which  never 

came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance, 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-bom 
and  grew 

Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  it 

With  all  a  mother's  care  :  neverthe- 
less. 

Whether  her  business  often  call'd  her 
from  it. 

Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed 
most, 


EXOCH  ARDEN. 


3*3 


Or  means   to  pay  the  voice  who  best 

could  tell 
What  most   it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it 

was, 
After  a  lingering.  —  ere  she  was  a  ware. — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  thit  same  week  when  Annie  buried 

it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for 

her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd 

upon  bar). 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept   aloof  so 

long. 
"  Surely,"  said  Philip,  "  I  may  see  her 

now, 
Maybe  some  little  comfort  "  ;  therefore 

went, 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
P.uised  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door. 
Then   struck   it   thrice,    and,    no    one 

opening, 
Enter'd ;  but    Annie,  seated   with  her 

grief. 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  tum'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and 

wept. 
Then   Philip  standing  up  said   falter- 

ingly, 
"  Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

He  spo'-.e  ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd 

reply, 
"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  ! "  half  abash'd  him  ;  yet  un- 

ask'd, 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war. 
He   set  liimself  beside  her,  saying  to 

her: 

"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 

wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husb.and  :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  —  a  strong 

man  : 
For  where  he  fbct  his  heart  he  set  his 

hand 
To  do  tlie  thing  he  will'd,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go   this  weary 

way, 


And  leave  you  lonely?  not  to  see  th« 
world  — 

For  pleasure  ?  —  nay,  but  for  the  where- 
withal 

To  give  his  babes  a  better  brincing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  yours  :  that  was 
his  wish. 

And  if  become  again,  vext  will  he  be 

To  find  the  precious  morning  hours 
were  lost. 

And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave. 

If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  run- 
ning wild 

Like  colts  about  the  waste.  So,  Annie, 
now  — 

Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 
lives? 

I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 

Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me 
nay  — 

For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes 
again 

Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  —  if  yoo 
will, 

Annie  — for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 

Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 
school : 

This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against 
the  wail 

Answer'd,  "  I  cannot  look  you  in  the 
face : 

I  "^eem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 

When  you  came  in  my  soitow  broke 
me  down  ; 

And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks 
me  down ; 

But  Enoch  lives  ;  that  is  borne  in  on 
me  ; 

He  will  repay  you  :  money  can  be  re- 
paid : 

Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"Then  you  will  let  me.  Annie?" 

There  she  tum'd. 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes 

upon  him. 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  lindly  face. 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his 

head 
Caught  at  his  hand  and  wrung  it 

sionately, 


J 


324 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 

everj'  way. 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made    himself    theirs;    and    the'    for 

Annie's  sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he 

sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and 

fruit, 
The   late    and    early   roses    from    his 

wall. 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 

then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the 

meal 

I        To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
i        From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 

waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's 

mind  : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 

upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  grati- 
r  tude 

!        Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him 

with. 
But   Philip  was  her  children's  all-in- 
all ; 
From  distant  comers  of  the  street  they 

.ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily  ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were 

they  ; 
Worried   his  passive    ear    with  petty 

wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd 

with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.     Philip 

gain'd 
As   Enoch  lost ;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to 

them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  we  know  not  where  :  and  so  ten 

years, 


Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 

land, 
Fled  fonvard,  and  no  news  of  Enoch 

came. 

It    chanced    one     evening    Annie's 

children  Inng'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ;  then 

they  begg'd 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him) 

too  : 
Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust,  _ 
Blanch'd   with   his  mill,    they  found  ; 

and  saying  to  him, 
"  Come  with   us    Father  Philip,"   he 

denied ; 
But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him 

to  go, 
He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their 

wish. 
For  was   not   Annie  with  them?  and 

they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  wean-  down. 
Just  \\  here  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her 

torce 
Fail'd  her ;  and  sighing  "  Let  me  rest" 

she  said : 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content ; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubi- 
lant cries 
Broke   from   their  elders,  and  tumul- 

tuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made 

a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  ben; 

or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crj'ing   to   each 

other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 

wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
j     Her    presence,    and   remember'd   one 
dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded 

life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow :  at  last  he 
said 


EXOCH  ARDEX. 


3-»5 


Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  "  Listen, 

Annie, 
How  meiTy  they  are  down  yonder  in 

the  wood." 
"  Tired,  Annie  ?  "  for  she  did  not  speak 

a  word. 
"  Tired  ?  "  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon 

her  hands  ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in 

him, 
"  The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "  the  ship 

was  lost ! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill 

yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite  ?"  And 

Annie  said, 
"  I  thought  not  of  it :  but  —  I  know  not 

why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 

spoke. 
"  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came 

there, 
I   know  that   it  will   out   at  last.     O 

Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
I'hat  he  w  ho  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living;  well  then  —  let 

me  speak : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting 

help  : 
I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they  say  that  women  are  so 

quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have 

you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.     I  fain  would 

prove 
A  father  to  your  children  :  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine 

own  ; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fa^t  my  wife, 
'I'hat  alter  all  these  sad  uncertain  years. 
We   might   be  still  as  hapi)y  as  God 

grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.     Think  upon 

it : 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and 

yours; 


*And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 

lives. 
And  1  have  loved  you  longer  than  you 

know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie  ;  tenderly  she 

spoke  : 
"  You  iiave  been  as  God's  good  angel 

in  our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  yo« 

for  it, 
Philip,   with  something  happier  than 

myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever 

loved 
As   Enoch   was?  what  is  it  that  you 

ask?" 
"  I  am  content,"  he  answer'd,  "  to  be 

loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."    "'O,"  she  cried 
Scared  as  it  were,  "  dear  Philip,  wait  a 

while : 
If  Enoch  comes  —  but  Enoch  will  not 

come  — 
Vet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long : 
Surely  1  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year  : 

0  wait  a  little  ! "'     Philip  sadly  said, 
'*  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little."    "  Nay,"  she 

cried, 
"  I  am  bound  :  you  have  my  promise  — 

in  a  year  : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide 

mine  ? " 
And  Philip  answer'd,  "  I  will  bide  my 

year." 

Here  both   were   mute,    till    Philip 

f  lancing  up 
the   dead   flame  of  the  fallen 

day 
Pass  frcwn  the  Danish  barrow  overhead  ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  thill  for  Annie 

ro.se. 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro* 

the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 

spoil ; 
Then  all  desceoded  to  the  port,  and 

there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave 

his  hand. 
Saying  gently,    '*  Annie,  when  I  kj^k« 

loycu. 


3:* 


EXOCH  ARDEX. 


Th.-it  wns  your  hour  of  weakness.     I ' 

was  wu>iig. 
I  am  always  Lh>uik1  to  you,  but  you  are 

linee.*' 
Then  Annie  weeping  answcv'd,  "  I  am 

bound. " 

She  sjx>ke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it 

were. 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  liouse- 

liold  ways, 
Ev'n  a*  she  dwelt  uiwn  his  latest  words. 
That  he  liad  loved  her  longer  than  she 

knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  tlash'd  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before 

her  t'ace, 
Claiming  her  promise.  "  Is  it  a  year  ?  " 

she  ask'd. 
''Yes,  it"  the  nuts,"  he  said,  "be  x\\^ 

again  : 
Come   out   and  see."     But   she  —  she 

put  him  off  — 
So  much  to  look  to  — such  a  change  — 

a  month  — 
Give  her  a  month  —  she  knew  that  she 

was  bound  — 
A  mouth  —  no  more.  Then  Philip  with 

his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his 

voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"  Take   your  own   time,   Annie,   take 

your  own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of 

him  : 
And  yet  siie  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  niany  a  scarce-believable  excuse. 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long  sufferance, 
Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost. 
Began  to  chale  as  at  a  i^rsonal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle 

w  ith  her  ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him 

on  ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip 

too. 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own 

minds ; 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 


Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.     Her 

own  son 
Was   silent,    tho'  he   often  KH)k'd  his 

wish  : 
But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 

her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lilt  the  household  out  »^f  poverty  ; 
And  Philip's  rosy  lace  ct>niractinggrew 
Carew(irn  and  wan  ;  and  all  these  things 

tell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd   for  a  sign  "  my  Enoch  is  he 

gone  ?" 
Then   compass'd  round  by  the  blind 

wall  of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  hei 

heart. 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a 

hght. 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign. 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"  Under  a  palmtree."     That  was  noth- 
ing to  her : 
No  meaning  there  :  she  closed  the  book 

and  slept : 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
I'nder  a  palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 
"  He   is  gone."  she  thought,   "  he  is 

happy,  he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest  :  yonder  shines 
'Ihe  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these 

be  palms 
Whereof  the   happy   people   strowing 

cried 
'Hosanna    in   the   highest!'"     Here 

she  woke. 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly 

to  him, 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not 

wed." 
"  Then  tor  God's  sake,"  he  answer'd, 

"  both  our  sakes. 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells, 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were 
wed. 


EXOCH  ARDES. 


VI 


But  nevet  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem 'd  to  till  beside  her  path, 
bbe  knew  not  whence  :  a  whimper  on 

her  ear. 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  aoe  to 

belett 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  oat  alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere  she  en- 
ter'd,  often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingerinely  on  the  latch. 
Fearing   tc  enter :  PhiBp  thought   he 

knew : 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common 

to  her  state. 
Being  with  child :  but  when  her  child 

was  bom. 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  re- 

new'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her 

heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all. 
And  that  m>-stenous  instinct  whoUv 

died. 

And  where  was  Enoch?  prosperously 

saU'd 
The  ship  "Good   Fortime,"   tho'  at 

setting  fonh 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 

shook 
And  almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet  un- 

vext 
She   slipt  across  the  summer  of  the 

world. 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the 

Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  ibol  and 

feir. 
She  passing  thro*  the  sammer  world 

again. 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 
And   sent  her  sweetly  by  the  goiden 

isles. 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and 

bought 
Quaint   monstere  for    the    market   of 

those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  bome-voy^e :  at  first 
indetrd 
Thro'  many  a  fiur  sea-orde,  day  by  day. 


Scarce-rocking,  her  fuQ -busted  ^avt- 

bead 
Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  froai 

her  bows: 
Then  ibllow'd  calms,  and  then  winds 

variable. 
Then  bafBing,  a  loog  course  of  iheai ; 

and  last 
Stonn,  such  as  drove  her  under  moo*- 

less  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  '*  breakers  " 

came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  two  others.     Half  the 

night. 
Baoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken 

spars. 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isk  al 

□K>ra 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  looely  tea. 

No  want  was  there  of  honnn  aHte- 

nance, 
S<^  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  noaiia^ 

ing  roots  ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  liie  so  wikl  that  it  was 

tame. 
There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mowt»- 

gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  kaves  of 

palm,  a  hut. 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.     So  the 

three. 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousnem. 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-cootcst. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 

than  boy. 
Hurt  in  that  ni^t  of  sudden  ruin  and 

wTeck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a  three-j'ears'  dcatb- 

in-Iife. 
They  could  not  leave  him.     After  ke 

w^s  zone. 
The  two  remaining  ibond  a  £J)en  step  ; 
And  Enoch's  comirade,  careleasof  kim- 

selC 
Fire-hoUowing  this  in  IiKltan  fashion. 

fell 
Sun-stricken,    and    that    other    Eved 

alooe. 
In  those  two  deaths  be  read  God's 
■  wait." 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak, 
the  lawns 

And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 
to  Heaven, 

The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of 
plumes, 

The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 

The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
j         That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems, 
and  ran 

Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  tlwland,  the  glows 

And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the 
world, 

All  these  he  saw  ;  but  what  he  fain  had 
seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human 
face, 

Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 

The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on 
the  reef. 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that 
branch'd 

And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the 
sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the 
wave. 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all 
day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  shipwreck' d  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail  : 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  preci- 
pices ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead  ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  them- 
selves in  Heaven, 

The  hoi  lower-bellowing  ocean,  and 
again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but  no 
sail. 

There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd 
to  watch. 

So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him 
paused, 

A  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms 
moved 

Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  him- 
self 


Moved  haunting  people,   things    and 

places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line  : 
The   babes,   their  babble,  Annie,  the 

small  house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy 

lanes, 
The  peacock-yewtree   and   the  lonely 

Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold, 

the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming 

downs. 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying 

leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd 

seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his 

ears, 
Tho'     faintly,    merrily  —  far    and    far 

away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells  ; 
I'hen,  tho'   he    knew  not  wherefore, 

started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous 

hateful  isle 
Retum'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor 

heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 

all  alone. 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over   Enoch's    early-silvering 

head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and 

went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his 

own, 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields. 
Not  yet  had  perish'd,  when  his  lonely 

doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.     Another 

ship 
i     (She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling 

winds. 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  des- 
tined course, 
Stny'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 

she  lay : 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  earl> 

dawn 


EXOCH  ARDEy. 


3*^ 


Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen 
isle 

The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 

They  sent  a  crew  that  lauding  burst 
away 

In  searcli  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill'd 
the  shores 

With  clamor.  Downward  from  his 
mountain  gorge 

Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  sol- 
itary. 

Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely 
clad. 

Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it 
seem'd, 

With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making 
signs 

They  knew  not  what :  and  yet  he  led 
the  way 

To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water 
ran  ; 

And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  long- 
bounden  tongue 

Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  under- 
stand ; 

Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fiU'd 
they  took  aboard : 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly, 

Scarce  credited  at  hrst  but  more  and 
more. 

Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to  it: 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  pas- 
sage honie  ;. 

But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and 
shook 

His  isolation  from  him.    None  of  these 

Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer 
him, 

If  question'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to 
know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long 
delays, 

The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy  ;  but  ev- 
ermore 

His  fancy  tied  before  the  lazy  wind 

Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 

He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 

Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly 
wall : 

And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 

Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 


Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 

him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd 

before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any 

one. 
But  homeward,  —  home,  —  what  home  .^ 

had  he  a  home  ? 
His  home,  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that 

at'tenioon. 
Sunny  but  chill ;  till  drawn  thro'  either 

chasm, 
Where    either   haven   of>en'd  on   the 

deeps, 
Roll'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world 

in  gray  ; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and 

right 
Of  withcr'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  ko'jin  pijK'd 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the   dripping 

haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore 

it  down  : 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the 

gloom  ; 
Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted 

light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the 

place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having 

slowly  stolen. 
His  hear^  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  lie  reach'd  the 

home 
Where  .Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 

his  b.ibes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 

bom  ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur 

there 
(.A.  bill  of  s.ile  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle) 

crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  dead 

to  me  ! " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  whari 
lie  went. 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew 
A  front  of  timber-crosl  antiquity, 


33° 


ENOCH'  ARDEN. 


So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old, 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ;  but  he 

was  gone 
Who  kept  it ;  and  his  widow,  Miriam 

Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the 

house ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but 

now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  gar- 
rulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing — Enoch  was  so  brown, 

so  bow'd, 
So  broken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school. 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing 

her. 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the 

birth 
Of  Philip's  child  :  and  o'er  his  counte- 
nance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  :  any  one. 
Regarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the 

tale 
Less  than  the  teller :   only  when  she 

closed, 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 

lost," 
He  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated  muttering  "  Cast  away  and 

lost "  ; 
Again     in     deeper    inward     whispers 
"  Lost !  " 

But  Enoch  yearn'd  to  see  her  face 

again  ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the 

thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove 

him  forth, 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  ; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories   roll 

upon  him. 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 


Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's 

house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the 

street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward ;  but  be- 
hind. 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the 

waste, 
Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and 

wall'd  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk 

and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and 

thence 
That    which    he    better    might    have 

shunn'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch 

saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  bumish'd 

board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the 

hearth  : 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his 

knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair' d  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted 

hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy 

arms. 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they 

laugh'd  : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  | 

babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with 

him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 

stronjr, 
And  saying  that  which  pleaded  him,  for 

he  smiled. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  hfe 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 

babe 
Hers,   yet  not  his,   upon   the  father's 

knee. 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  hap- 
piness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful. 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his 

place. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's 

love,  — 
Thenhe,tho' Miriam  Lane  had  told  him 

all. 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 

things  heard, 
Stagger'd     and     shook,    holding     the 

branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry. 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of 

doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 

hearth. 

He   therefore    turning  softly  like   a 
thief. 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  un- 
derfoot. 
And  fee'ing  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 

be  found. 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and 

closed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the 
waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but 

that  his  knees 
Were  feeble, so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His   fingers   into   the  wet    earth,  and 

pray'd. 

"Too  hard  to  bear!  why  did  they 
take  me  thence? 
OGod  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour, Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle. 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  lone'iness 
A  little  longer !  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too !  must  I  not  speak  to 
these  ? 


They  know  me  not     I  should  betray 

myself 
Never  :  no  father's  kiss  for  me,  —  the 

girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my 


There  spieech  and  thought  and  na- 
ture faii'd  a  little. 
And  he  lay  tranced  ;  but  wlien  he  rose 

and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary-  home  again. 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he 

went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  wear)'  brain. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.    His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  ever- 
more 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the 

will. 
And   beating  up   thro'  all   the    bitter 

world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea. 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.    "  This  miller's 

wife," 
He  said  to  Miriam,  "  that  you  told  me 

of, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 

lives? " 
"Ay  ay,  poor  soul,  "said  Miriam,  "fear 

enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 

dead. 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort  "  ;  and 

he  thought, 
"  After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she  shall 

know, 
I  wait  His  time,"  and  Enoch  set  him- 
self. 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to 

live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  hi* 

hand. 
Cooper    he    was   and    cari>entcr,    and 

wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nct»,  or 

help'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks. 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  o/ 

those  d.iys  ; 
Thus  eam'd  a  scanty  living  for  himself: 


332                                             ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 

Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no 

Work  witliout  hope,  there  was  not  life 

man,  he." 

in  it 

Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her ; 

Whereby  the  man  could  live ;  and  as 

"His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares 

the  year 

for  liim. 

Roll'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the 

I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to 

day 

live  ; 

When  Enoch  had  return'd,  a  languor 

I  am  the  man."     At  which  the  woman 

came 

gave 

Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 

A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 

Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do 

"  You  Arden,  you  !  nay.  —sure  he  was 

no  more. 

a  foot 

Dut  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 

Higher  than   you    be."     Enoch    said 

his  bed. 

again, 

And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheer- 

" My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what 

fully. 

I  am  ; 

For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 

My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 

wreck 

Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 

See   thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting 

Who    married  — but    that    name    has 

squall 

twice  been  changed  — 

The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  ap- 

I married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray.         . 
Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his        ' 

proach 

To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he 

voyage. 

saw 

His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming 

Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close 

back, 

of  all. 

His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 

And  how  "he  kept  it.     As  the  woman 

For  thro'   that    dawning  gleam'd  a 

heard. 

kindlier  hope 

Fast   flow'd  the   current   of  her   easy 

On  Enoch  thinking,  "After  I  am  gone. 

tears. 

Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the 

While  in  her  heart  she  yeam'd  inces- 

last." 

santly 

He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and 

To   rush   abroad   all   round   the   httle 

said. 

haven. 

"  Woman,  I  have  a  secret — only  swear, 

Proclaiming    Enoch    Arden    and    his 

Before    I    tell   you  —  swear  upon    the 

woes ; 

book 

But  awed  and  promise-bounden    she 

Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 

forbore, 

"Dead,"    clamor'd  the  good  woman, 

Saying  only,  "  See  your  baims  before 

"  hear  him  talk  J 

you  go  ! 

I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you 

Eh,    let   me   fetch    'em,    Arden,"  and 

round." 

arose 

"Swear,"   added  Enoch  sternly,  "on 

Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch 

the  book." 

hung 

And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam 

A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  re- 

swore. 

plied  : 

Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon 

her, 

"  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 

"  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this 

last. 

town  ?  " 

But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 

"  Know  him  ?  "  she  said,  "  I  knew  him 

Sit  down  again  ;  mark  nie  and  under- 

far away. 

stand. 

Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the 

While  I  have  power  to  speak.   I  charge 

street ; 

you  now. 

EXOCH  ARDE.V. 


333 


When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I 

died 
Blessing  her,    pra>-ing  for  her,  loving 

her; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,   lorfng 

her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my 

own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I 

saw 
So  like   her  mother,   that    my    latest 

breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying 

for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing 

him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too  : 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead. 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 

com.-, 
I  am  their  father  ;  but  she  must  not 

come. 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my 

blood. 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world- 
to-be  : 
This  hair  is  his :  she  cut  it  off  and 

gave  it. 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 


years, 
the 


And  thoui^ht  to  bear  it  with  me  V)  my 
grave ; 


But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I 

shall  see  him. 
My  babe  in  blus  :  wherefore  when  I 

am  gone. 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 

her  : 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her. 
That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased  ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising 

That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  upon 

her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and 

pale. 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  in- 
tervals. 
There  came  so  loud  a  <  x. 

That  all  the  houses  in  ;. 

He  wo'».e,  he  rose,  he  -, _..as 

abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "  A  sail !  a 

sail! 
I  am  saved " :  and  so  fell  back  and 
spoke  no  more. 
1 

1         So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  htiie 
port 
i     Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeraL 


334                                            A  YLMER'S  FIELD. 

ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 

AYLMER'S   FIELD. 

His  only  child,   his  Edith,  whom   he 

loved 

1793- 

As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully? 

Dust   are  our  frames ;  and,  gilded 

But   "  he  that  marries  her  marries  her 

dust,  our  pride 

name  " 

Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and 

This  fiat    somewhat    soothed  himself 

sound  ; 

and  wife, 

Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 

His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  TJaths, 

Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  orna- 

Insipid as  the  CJueen  upon  a  card  ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly 

ments. 

Which  at   a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of 

more 

heaven, 

Than  his  own  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 

Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

A  land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher 

com. 

shape 

Little  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook  ! 

Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I 

A  s!eepy  land  where  under  the  same 

saw 

wheel 

Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone — 

The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by 

Old,   and  a  mine  of  memories  —  who 

year  ; 

had  served, 

Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one 

Long  since,    a   bygone  Rector  of  the 

name  ; 

place, 

Where  Aylmer  follow'd  Aylmer  at  the 

And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he 

Hall 

told. 

And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 

Thrice  over  ;  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  that  almighty 

Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy. 

man. 

Were  open  to  each  other  ;  tho'  to  dream 

The  county  God  —  in  whose  capacious 

That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 

hall, 

had  made 

Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  fam- 

The hoar  hair  of  the   Baronet  bristle 

ily  tree 

up 

Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate 

With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard        | 

king  — 

his  priest 

Whose  blazmg  wyvem  weathercock'd 

Preach  an  inverted  scripture,,  sons  of 

the  spire, 

men 

Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his 

Daughters  of  God  ;  so  sleepy  was  the 

entry-gates 
And  swang  besides  on  many  a  windy 

land. 

sign  — 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd 

Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal 

it  so. 

head 

Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 

Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his 

of  roofs. 

own  — 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree? 

What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than 

There  was  an  Aylmcr-Averill  marriage 

her, 

once. 

Al'LAfEK'S  FIELD.                                         335 

When  the  red  rose  was  redder   than 

Doubled   her  own,   for  \*-ant  of  play- 

itself, 

mates,  he 

And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lan- 

(Since Averill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 

caster's, 

His   elder,    and   their   parents  under- 

With wounded  peace  which  each  had 

ground) 

prick'd  to  death. 

Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite, 

"  Not  proven,"  Averill  said,  or  laugh- 
ingly, 

and  roll'd 

His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her 

"Some  other  race  of  Averills"— prov'n 

dipt 

or  no. 

Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone 

What  cared  he  ?  what,  if  other  or  the 

swing. 

same  ? 

Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy  chain,  ar- 

He lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  him- 

ranged 

self. 

Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept 

But  Leolin.  his  brother,  living  oft 

it  green 

With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 

In  living  letters,  told  herfairy-ta'es. 

Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neigh- 

Show'd her  the  fairy  footings  on  the 

grass. 

borhood. 

The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fair>'  palms, 

Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith, 

The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines, 

claim 

Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 

A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 

What  iook'd  a   flight   of  fairy  arrows 

That  shook  the  heart  of  Ediih  hearing 

aim'd 

him. 

All   at   one   mark,  all  hitting :   make- 

believes 

Sanguine  he  was  :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 

For   Edith   and   himself:   or  else   he 

Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 

forged. 

Flamed  in  his  cheek  ;  and  eager  eyes, 

But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 

that  still 

Of  battle,    bold   adventure,    dungeon. 

Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful, 

wreck. 

beam'd, 

Flights,    terrors,   sudden  rescues,  and 

Beneath   a  manelike   mass  of  rolling 

true  love 

gold. 

Crown'd  after  trial  ;  sketches  rude  and 

Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they 

faint. 

dwelt  on  hers, 

But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  per- 

Edith, whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect 

haps 

else. 

Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 

But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood. 

Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 

Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the 

•        gale. 

less 

And  thus  together,  save   for  college- 

And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 

times           ^ 

We  know  not  wherefore  ;  bounteously 

Or  Temple -eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 

made. 

As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 

And  yet  so   finely,    that  a    troublous 

Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded. 

touch 

grew. 

Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in 

And    more     and    more,    the    maiden 

a  day. 

woman -grown. 

A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 

He  wasted  hours  with  Averill ;  there, 

And  these  had  been  together  from  the 

when  first    • 

first. 

The   tented   winter-field  was    broken 

Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after, 

"'"        . 

hers  : 

Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That  soon  should  wear  the  garland  : 

So  much  the  boy  foreran  ;  but  when 

his  date 

there  again 

33^ 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


When  burr  and  bine  ^vere  gather'd ; 

lastly  there 
At   Christmas  ;   ever  welcome  at   the 

Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of 

youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering 

even 
My  lady;   and  the-  Baronet  yet  had 

laid 
No  bar  between  them :  dull  and  self- 
involved, 
Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his 

height 
With  half  allowing  smiles  for  all  the 

world, 
And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  — 

his  pride 
Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring  — 
He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 
Would  care  no  more  for  LeoHn's  walk- 
ing with  her 
Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when 

they  ran 
To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 
Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain. 
Roaring    to   make   a   third;  and  how 

should  I.ove, 
Whom    the    cross-lightnings    of    four 

chance-met  ej'es 
Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 
Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of 

all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing 

that  they  loved. 
Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a 

bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 

ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that 

hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her 

peace. 
Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leo- 

lin's  — 
Who   knows?  but  so   they  wander'd, 

hour  by  hour 
Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd, 

and  drank 
The  magic  cup  that  fill'd  itself  anew. 


A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  her- 
self 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the 

brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence, 

ran 
By  saliovvy  rims,   arose    the  laborers' 

homes, 
A   frequent   haunt   of  Edith,    on   low 

knolls 
That  dimpling  died   into  each  other, 

huts 
At   random  scatter'd,   each  a  nest  in 

bloom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had 

wrought 
About  them  :  here  was  one  that,  sum- 

mer-blanch'd, 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's- 
joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad  ;  and  here 
The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden 

hearth 
Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honey- 
suckle : 
One  look'd  all   rosetree,  and  another 

wore 
A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with 

stars : 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
About  it  :  this,  a  milky-way  on  earth. 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's 

heavens, 
A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors  ; 
One,    almost    to    the   martin-haunte'' 

eaves 
A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhoc',.s ; 
Each,    its   own    charm  ;    and    Edith's 

everywhere  ; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him. 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her 

poor : 
For  she  —  so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly   responsive    when    the    loyal 

hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she 

past. 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing 

by, 
Nor    dealing  goodly    counsel   from   a 

height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a 

voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 


AVLMER'S  I>IELD. 


337 


A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor 

roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,   but   kindlier  than 

themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  — was  adored  ; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself     A 

grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the 

heart, 
A   childly  way  with   children,  and  a 

Ringing   like   proven   golden    coinage 

true, 
Were   no  false  passport  to  that  easy 

realm. 
Where   once  with  Leolin  at  her  side 

the  girl. 
Nursing  a  child,  and  turning  to  the 

warmth 
The    tender    pink    five-beaded  baby- 
soles, 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper 

"  Bless, 
God  bless  'em  ;  marriages  are  made  in 

Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to 
her. 
My    Lady's    Indian    kinsman    unan- 
nounced 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  sol- 
dierly, 
Sear'd  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not 

fair ; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the 

hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful :  so  when  first 

he  dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day. 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  "  Good  !  my  lady's  kinsman  1 

good  !  " 
My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen  :  unawares  they  flitted  off, 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flower- 
age 
That  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in 

which. 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she, 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 


Stept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those 

days : 
But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with 

him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of 

his  life  : 
Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he: 
I   know  not,   for  he  spoke  not,  only 

shower'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one 
And  most  on  Edith  :  like  a  storm  he 

came, 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm 

he  went 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow'd  and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to  re- 
turn 
When  others  had  been  tested)    tliere 

was  one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels 

on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch'd 

itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.   I  know  not  whence 

at  first. 
Nor  of  what  race,  the  work  ;  but  as  he 

told 
The    story,    storming    a    hill-fort    of 

thieves 
He  got  it  ;  for  their  captain  after  fight. 
His  comrades  having  fought  their  last 

below. 
Was  climbing  up  the  valley;  at  whom 

he  shot : 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which 

he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet, 
This  dagger  with  lum,  which  wlien  now 

admired 
By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to 

please. 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And    Leolin,   coming  after  he  was 
gone. 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly  : 
And   when   she   show'd    the    wealthy 

scabbard,  saying 
"  Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  work- 
manship I  " 


338 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Slight  was  his  c^nswer  "Well  —  I  care 

not  for  it  "  : 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd 

his  hand, 
"  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  !  " 
"  But  would  it  be  more  gracious,"  ask'd 

the  girl, 
"  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady?"     "Gracious?    No," 

said  he. 
"Me?  —  but    I   cared   not    for  it.     O 

pardon  me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself" 
"Take  it,"  she  added  sweetly,  '^tho' 

his  gift ; 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  ev'n  than 

you, 
I  care  not  for  it  either  "  ;  and  he  said 
"  Why  then  1  love  it "  :  laut  Sir  Aylmer 

past, 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing 

he  heard. 

The    next    day    came    a    neighbor. 

Blues  and  reds 
They  talk'd  of:  blues  were  sure  of  it, 

he  thought : 
Then  of  the  latest  fox — where  started — 

kill'd 
In   such   a  bottom  :   "  Peter  had  the 

brush, 
My  Peter,  first "  :  and  did  Sir  Aylmer 

know 
That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been 

caught  ? 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to 

hand, 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance 

of  it 
Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and 

down  — 
"  The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 

warm  upon  him ; 
We  have  him  now  "  :  and  had  Sir  Ayl- 
mer heard — 
Nay,  but  he  must — the  land  was  ring- 
ing of  it — 
This  blacksmith-border  marriage — one 

they  knew — 
Raw  from  the  nursery —  who  could  trust 

a  child  ? 
That   cursed   France  with   her  egali- 

ties  1 
And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 


With  nearing  chair  and  lower'd  accent) 

think — 
For  people  talk'd — that  it  was  wholly 

wise 
To  let   that  handsome  fellow  Averill 

walk 
So  freelv  with   his  daughter?  people 

talk'd— 
The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him  ; 
The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she 

knew. 
Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly   stiffening 

spoke : 
"The   girl   and  boy,   Sir,  know  their 

differences  !  " 
"Good,"  said  his  friend,  "but  watch!" 

and  he  "  Enough, 
More  than  enough,  Sir  !     I  can  guard 

my  owTi." 
They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer 

watch 'd. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the      i 

house  I 

Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same      I 

night  ;  j 

Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough      I 

piece  I 

Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which  I 

Withdrawing  by  the   counter  door   to 

that  ! 

Which   Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back      j 

upon  him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.    He, 

as  one 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets. 
Turning  beheld  the    Powers    of  the 

House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant; 

her. 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather- 
fan. 
Him  glaring,  by  his  owii  stale  deviJ 

spurr'd, 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breath* 

ing  hard. 
"  Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 
Presumptuous  1  trusted  as  he  was  witK 

her, 
The   sole   succeeder   to  their  wealth 

their  lands. 
The    last    remaining    pillar    of    the")'' 

house, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


339 


The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient 

name, 
Their  chili."     "  Our  child  !  "     "  Our 

heiress  !  "     "  Ours  !  "  for  still. 
Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow, 

came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said 
"  Boy,  mark  me  !  for  your  fortunes  are 

to  make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of 

mme. 
Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised 

on  her, 
Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  her- 
self, 
Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and 

us — 
Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impos- 
sible, 
Far  as  we  track  oiurselves —  I  say  that 

this, — 
Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 
From  you  and  yours   forever  —  shall 

you  do. 
Sir,  when  you  see  her — but  you  shall 

not  see  her — 
No,  j'ou  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but 

me  : 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken 

with  me. 
And  after  look'd  in^o   yourself,    you 

find 
That  you  meant  nothing— as  indeed 

you  know 
That  you  meant  nothing.   Such  a  match 

as  this ! 
Impossible,  prodigious  !  "   These  were 

words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself. 
Arguing  boundless  forbearance  :   after 

which. 
And  Leolin'shorror-stricken  answer,"  I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her. 
Never,  O  never,"  for  about  as  long 
As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance, 

paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm 

within, 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and 

crying 
"  Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors 

again. 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like 
a  dog: 


Hence  ! "  with  a  sudden  execration 

drove 
The  footstool   from   before   him,   and 

arose ; 
So,   stammering   "scoundrel"   out  o( 

teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin 

still 
Retreated   half-aghast,   the   fierce  old 

man 
Follow'd,  and  underhis  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted   hands,  a  hoary 

face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearh, 

but  now, 
Beneath    a    pale    and    unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  de« 

forra'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful 

eye 
That  w'atch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the 

ponderous  door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro* 

the  lanci^ 
Went  Leolin  ;  then,  his  passions  all  io 

flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down    thro'    the  bright  lawiis  to  his 

brother's  ran. 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's 

ear  : 
Whom  Averill   solaced  as  he  might, 

amazed  : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's, 

friend  : 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen 

it  long  ; 
He   must   have  known,   himself   had 

known  :  besides. 
He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 
Here   in   the   woman-markets  of   the 

west, 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves 

be  sold. 
Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander'd 

Leolin  to  him. 
"  Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more 

as  son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you  :  I  my- 
self— 
What  is  their  pretty  saying?  jilted,  iiit? 
Jilted  I  was :  I  say  it  for  your  peace 


340                                           AYLMER'S  FIELD. 

Paln'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the 

Fall  back  upon  a  name  !  rest,  rot  in 

shame 

that  ! 

The  woman  should  have  borne,  humil- 

Not  kec/>  it  noble,   make   it  nobler? 

iated, 

fools, 

I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life  ; 

With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  noble- 

Till after  our  good  parents  past  away 

ness  ! 

Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again 

He  had  knovra  a  man,  a  quintessence 

to  grow. 

of  man, 

Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you  : 

The  life  of  all  —  who  madly  loved  — 

Tiie  ver)-  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 

and  he. 

Loves  you  :    I  know  her :   the  worst 

Thwarted  by  one  of  these   old  father- 

thought  she  has 

fools, 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand  : 

Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 

She    must    prove   true :    for,   brother, 

He  would  not  do  it !    her  sweet  face 

where  two  fight 

and  faith 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love 

Held  him  from  that :  but  he  had  pow- 

are strength, 

ers,  he  knew  it : 

And  you  are  happy :   let  her  parents 

Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a 

be." 

name. 

Name,  fortune  too  :  the  world  should 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon 

ring  of  him 

them  — 

To  shame   these   mouldy  Aylmers  in 

Insolent,  brainless,  heartless  !    heiress, 

their  graves  : 

wealth, 

Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would 

Their  wealth,   their  heiress !    wealth 

hebe- 

enough  was  theirs 

"  0  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  leani  your 

For  twenty  matches.     Were  he  lord  of 

grief — 

this, 

Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my 

Why   twenty  boys    and    girls   should 

say." 

marry  on  it, 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own 

himself 

excess. 

Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.    He  be- 

And easily  forgives  it  as  his  owti. 

lieved 

He  laugh'd  ;  and  then  was  mute  ;  but 

This  filtliy  marriage-hindering   Mam- 

presently 
Wept  like  a  storm  :  and  honest  Averill 

mon  made 

The  harlot  of  tlie  cities  ;  nature  crost 

seeing 

Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 

How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen, 

That  saturate  soul  with  body.     Name, 

fetch'd 

too  !  name, 

His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  re- 

Their ancient  name  !    they  im'g-ht  be 

served 

proud  ;  its  worth 

For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red, 

Was  being  Editli's.     Ah  how  pale  she 

and  told 

had  look'd 

The  vintage  —  when  this  Aylmer  came 

Darling,    to-night  !     they    must  have 

of  age  — 

rated  her 

Then  drank  and  past  it ;  till  at  length 

Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  old  pheas- 

the two. 

ant-lords, 

Tho'   Leolin   flamed    and   fell    again, 

These   partridge-breeders   of  a   thou- 

agreed 

sand  years. 

That  much  allowance  must  be  made 

Who  had  miklevv'd  in  their  thousands, 

for  men. 

doing  nothing 

After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 

Since  Egbert  —  why,  the  greater  their 

Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose 

disgrace  ! 

held. 

AVLMER'S  FIELD. 


34* 


Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers 

met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  dark  en 'd  all  the  northward  of  her 

Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom 

prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force. 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter 

her: 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 
Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 
He  should  not  be  rejected.     "  Write 

to  me  ! 
They  loved  me,  and  because   I  loved 

their  child 
They  hate  me  :  there  is  war  between  us, 

dear, 
Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours  ;  we 

must  remain 
Sacred  to  one  another."  So  they  talk'd, 
Poor  children,  for  their  comfort :  the 

wind  blew  ; 
The  rain   of  heaven,   and   their  own 

bitter  tears, 
Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 

mixt 
Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each 

other 
In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd  the 

pine. 

So  Leolin  went ;  and  as  we  task  our- 
selves 

To  learn  a  language  known  but  smat- 
teringly 

In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random, 
toil'd 

Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our 
law, 

That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 

That  wilderness  of  single  instances. 

Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led. 

May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and 
fame. 

The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  plead- 
er's room. 

Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the 
scurrilous  tale,  — 

Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 
deep 

In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and 
died. 


And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall 

die  — 
Were  dead  to  him  already  ;  bent  as  he 

was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong 

in  hopes. 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he. 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exercise. 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at 

eye. 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he 

ran 
Beside  the  river-bank  :  and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands 

of  power 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts 

of  men    » 
Seem'd  harder  too  ;  but  the  sot't  river- 
breeze. 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival 

rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him 

breathed 
Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro. 
After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blo«d  w  ith 

air. 
Then  t)  his  books  again.     My  lady's 

cousin. 
Half-sickening  of  his  pension'd  after- 
noon. 
Drove   in  upon   the   student   once  or 

twice. 
Ran  a  Malayan  muck  against  the  times 
Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all 

mankind, 
Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at 

home 
With  a  he.ived  shoulder  and  a  saucy 

smile. 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the 

world. 
And  air'd  him  there  :  his  nearer  fnend 

would  say, 
"  Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest 

it  snap." 
Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd  her  dagger 

forth 
From  where  his  worldlcss   heart  had 

kept  it  warm. 
Kissing  his  vows  ujion  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of 

him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  hit  riso  : 


342 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


For  heart,  I  think,  help'd  head  :  her 

letters  too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like    broken    music,    written    as   she 

found 
Ormade  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till 

he  saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon 

him. 

But   they  that  cast   her  spirit  into 

flesh. 
Her  worldly-wise   begetters,   plagued 

themselves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her 

good. 
Whatever  eldest-bom  of  rank  or  wealth 
INIight   lie   within  their  compass,  him 

they  lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the 

baits 
Of  gold  and   beauty,   wooing   him   to 

woo. 
So  month  by  month   the  noise  about 

their  doors. 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  ban- 
quets, made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  \\ings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the 

wind 
With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale. 
And  laughter  to  their  lords  :  but  those 

at  home. 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature 

draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the 

death, 
Narrow'd  her  goings  out  and  comings 

in  ; 
Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 
Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 

farms. 
Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the 

poor 
They  barr'd  her  :  yet  she  bore  it :  yet 

her  cheek 
Kept  color :   wondrous  I  but,  O  mys- 
tery ! 


What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that 

old  oak, 

So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 

Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of 
John  — 

Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree, 
but  now 

The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 

Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourish- 
ing spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 

Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood- 
dust 

Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure- 
trove  ; 

Burst  his  own  wyvem  on  the  seal,  and 
read 

Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for 
which 

Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emis- 
sary, 

A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to  fly, 

But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and 
halter  gave 

To  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish 
wits 

The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 
besides 

To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 

Nor  let  them  know  themselves  be- 
tray'd,  and  then,  _ 

Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him, 
went 

Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  misera- 
ble. 

Thencefonvard  oft  from  out  a  despot 

dream 
Panting  he  woke,  and  oft  as  early  as 

dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms. 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the  fescue, 

brush'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treas- 
ure-trove. 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady, 

who  made 
A  downward  crescent   of  her  minion 

mouth. 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  read  ;  and 

tore, 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel   the   rent; 

and  burnt, 


AVLMER'S  FIELD. 


34J 


Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  de- 
fied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 

of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  babe. 
After  much  wailing,    hush'd   itself  at 

last 
Hopeless  of  answer  :  then  tho'  Averill 

wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 

himself — 
All  would  be  well — the  lover  heeded 

not. 
But    passionately    restless  came    and 

went, 
And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the 

place, 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt. 
Raging  return'd:   nor  was  it  well  for 

her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of 

pines, 
Watch'd  even  there  ;  and  one  was  set 

to  watch 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd 

them  all, 
Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings :  once 

indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 

in  her. 
She  look'd  so   sweet,   he   kiss'd    her 

tenderly 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him  :  that 

one  kiss 
Was   Leolin's   one   strong  rival  upon 

earth ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose  :  and  then 

ensued 
A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness  ;  after  this 
He   seldom  crost  his  child  without  a 

sneer ; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acri- 
monies : 
Never   one    kindly  smile,  one   kindly 

word : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from 

all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 

lost 


Nor  greatly  cired  to  lose,  her  hold  on 

life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  t« 

spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house. 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer, 

or  men. 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt — 
Save  Christ  as  we  believe  hmi —  found 

the  girl 
And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of 

fire. 
Where  careless  of  the  household  taccs 

near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  I^olin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 

past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul 

to  soul 
Strike   thro'   a  finer  element   of  her 

own? 
So,  —  from  afar, — touch  as  at  once  ?  or 

why 
That  night,   that  moment,   when  she 

named  his  name, 
Did  the  keen  shriek,  "  Yes  love,  yes 

Edith,  yes," 
Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers 

woke. 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from 

sleeji. 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and 

trembling. 
His  hair  as   it    were    crackling    into 

flames. 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit. 
And  his  long  arms  strctch'd  as  to  grasp 

a  flyer : 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made 

the  cry ; 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 
r>y  the  rough  amity  <»f  the  otiicr,  sank 
A-i  into  sleep  again.  The  second  day, 
Mv  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in. 
A  breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home. 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with 

death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  him- 
self 
Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's 

bloo<l : 
"  From  Edith  "  was  engraven  on  the 

blade. 


344 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon 

his  death. 
And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  be- 
lieved— 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not 

Time's 
Had  blasted  him — that  many  thousand 

days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of 

life. 
Yet   the   sad   mother,   for  the  second 

death 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness 

of  the  first, 
And  being   used    to    find    her  pastor 

texts, 
Sent  to  the  liarrow'd  brother,  praying 

him 
To   speak   before   the   people    of  her 

child. 
And  fkt  the  Sabbath.  Darkly  that  day 

rose  : 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded 

woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it ;  for  hard  on  these, 
A   breathless    burthen    of  low-folded 

heavens 
Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once  :  but  every 

roof 
Sent   out   a  listener :   many   too    had 

known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and 

since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hapless 

loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  mur- 

mur'd,  left 
Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To  hear  him  ;  all  in  mourning  these, 

and  those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon, 

g'ove 
Or  kerchief;  while  the  church, — one 

night,  except 
For    greenish    ghmmcrings   thro'    the 

lancets,  —  made 
Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who 

tower' d 
Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either 

grave. 

Long  o'er  his  bent  brows  linger'd 
Averill, 


His  face  ma_gnetlc  to  the  hand  from 

which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  and  labor'd 

thro' 
His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse 

"  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! " 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed  half  frighted  all   his 

flock :  _        _ 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  ot 

grief 
Bore  down  in   flood,   and  dash'd  his 

angry  heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became 

one  sea. 
Which  rolling  o'er  the  palaces  of  the 

proud. 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living 

God  — 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer 

world  — 
When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 

thunder,  wrought 
Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idola- 
tries. 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortahty 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven 

of  Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the 

Highest? 
"Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy 

brute  Baal, 
And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself. 
For   with    thy    worst   self   hast   thou 

clothed  thy  God." 
Then  cnme  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to 

Baal. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.    Surely 

now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the 

rose. 
Crown    thyself,    worm,    and    worship 

thine  own  lusts  !  — 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel 

to  — 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flow- 
ing lawns, 
And   heaps  of  living  gold   that   daily 

grow, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


345 


And  title-scrons  and  goi<geoas  heiald- 

ries. 
In  soch  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy 

God.  ^ 

T1k>u  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  ihm  ; 

for  ihine 
Fares  richly,  in  nr-.e  'inen.  r.  :  a  hair 
Ruffled  »^>o::  while 

Thedeaxhle--  -  r.ouse 

Is  wounded  :_   .„.   : rannot 

die: 
And  tho'  thou  numberest  with  the  fol- 
lowers 
Of  One  who  cried  "  Leave  all  and  ibl- 

low  me." 
Thee  there.^ore  with  His  light  about  thy 

feet. 
Thee  with  His  message  niiging  in  thine 

ears. 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord 

from  Heaven, 
Bom  of  a  village  giri,  carpenter's  son, 
Wonderfiil,  Pnnce  of  peace,  the  Mighty 

God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the 

two; 
Crueller :  as  not  pas^g  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,   but  souls — thy  children's  — 

thro'  the  smoke. 
The  blight  of  low  desoes — darkenii^ 

tlune  own 
To  thine  own  likeness  ;  or  if  one  of 

these. 
Thy  better  bom  unhappily  from  thee. 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight 

and  toir  — 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a 

one 
By  those  who  most  hare  cause  to  sor- 
row for  her  — 
Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  pudmy  well. 
Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of 

com. 
Fair  as  the  .\ngel  that  said  "  hail "  she 

seem'd. 
■VMio  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sud- 
den HgTit. 
Few  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd :  where 

indeed 
The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of 

Heaven 
Dawn'd  sometimes  thro'  the  doofway  ? 

whose  the  babe 
Too  la^ed  to  be  fondled  oo  her  lap. 


Waim'd  at  her  boson  ?  The  poor  child 

of  shame. 
The  oonuDOD  care  whom  noooeared 

iot,  leapt 
Togreet  her,  wasting  his  fecgottea  heart. 
As  ik-ith  the  mother  he  had  never  known. 
In  gambols ;  far  her  fresh  and  innocent 


Had  such  a  starof morning  in  their  blue. 
That  ail  neglected  {daces  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they 

saw  her. 
Low  mas  her  voice,  bat  won  njtitionom 

way 
Thro'  the  seal'd  ear  to  which  a  loader 

one 
Was  all  but  silence— free  of  alwher 

hand  — 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-wilb 

with  flo^-ers 
Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  yoor  littk 

ones: 
How  often  placed  opaa  the  side  man's 


CooI'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  ptlkw 

smooth  ! 
Had  vou  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it 

not? 
One  burthen  and  die  wooldnotfisbtcii 

it? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 
Or  when  some  heat  of  difierenoe  spark- 
led out. 
How  sweetly  woold  she  g^de  between 

your  wTaths, 
And  steal  vou  fixim  each  other  I  far  she 

^alk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of 

love. 
Who  still'd  the  rollin|  wave  of  Galilee  ! 
And  ooe — oi  him  I  was  doc  bid  to 

speak  — 
Was  alwavs  with  her,  wboai  yoa  also 

knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  far  he  was  worthy 

love. 
And  these  had  been  tosetker  fiooi  the 

first; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the 

last. 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  oi  oom,  wiies 

sorely  mej 


May 


guilt. 


withoot  the  ptkx'f 


346 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Without    the     captain's    knowledge : 

hope  with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence 

with  shame  ? 
Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of 

these 
I   cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd 

walls, 
"  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers 
wept ;  but  some, 

Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns 
than  those 

That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shad- 
ow, scowl' d 

At  their  great  lord.  He,  when  it  seem'd 
he  saw 

No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but 
fork'd 

Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his 
head. 

Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier- 
like, 

Erect :  but  when  the  preacher's  ca- 
dence flow'd 

Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 

Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd 
his  face. 

Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron 
mouth  ; 

And  "  O  pray  God  that  he  hold  up," 
she  thought, 

"  Or  surely  I  shall  shame  myself  and 
him." 

"  Nor  yours  the  blame  —  for  who  be- 
side your  hearths 

Can  take  her  place — if  echoing  me  you 
cry 

'Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  '  ? 

But  thou,  O  thou  that  killest,  hadst 
thou  known, 

O  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 
stood 

The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and 
ours ! 

Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that 
calls 

Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste 
'  Repent '  ? 

Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  waj', 

Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the 
broad 


Cries  '  Come  up  hither,'  as  a  prophet 

to  us? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and 

rock? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 
Yes,   as  your   moanings  witness,  and 

myself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,   earthller  for  my 
loss. 

Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past 
your  prayers, 

Not  past  the   living  fount  of  pity  in 
Heaven. 

But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffer- 
ing, meek, 

Exceeding  '  poor  in  spirit '  —  how  the 
words 

Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves, 
and  mean 

Vileness,   we  are  grown  so  proud  —  I 
wish'd  my  voice 

A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 

To    blow    these    sacrifices    thro'    the 
world  — 

Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 

To  inflame  the  tribes  :  but  there — out 
yonder  —  earth 

Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell  — 
O  there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatiy  — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so 
fast. 

They  cling  together    in   the    ghastly 
sack  — 

The  land  all  shambles  —  naked  mar- 
riages 

Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-mur- 
der'd  France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gather- 
ing wolf, 

Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 

Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 

Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their 
pride  ? 

May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense 
as  those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 
sin  from  all : 

Doubtless  our  naiTow  world  must  can- 
vass it : 

O  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 


AVLMER'S  FIELD. 


347 


Who  thro'    their  ow-n    desire   accom- 

plish'd  brin^ 
Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 

grave  — 
Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  de- 
sired to  break  — 
Which  else  had  link'd  their  race  with 

times  to  come  — 
Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her 

purity, 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's 

good  — 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they 

did,  but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  owii  daughter's 

death  ! 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suf- 
fice? 
Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left 

them  bare  ? 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 
Will   there   be  cliildren's  laughter  in 

their  hall 
Forever  and  forever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 
That    I  their  guest,   their  host,  their 

ancient  friend, 
I   made   by  these   the  last  of  all  my 

race 
Must  crj'  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as 

cned 
Christ   ere   His  agony  to  those   that 

swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and 

made 
Their  owm  traditions  God,  and  slew  the 

Lord, 
And    left    their    memories  a   world's 

curse  — '  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  '  ? " 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd 
no  more  : 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly. 

Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and 
a  sense 

Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 

Then  their  eyes  vext  her ;  for  on  en- 
tering 

He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat 
aside  — 

Black  velvet  of  the  costliest  —  she  her- 
self 


Had  seen  to  that :  fain  had  she  closed 

them  now. 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when 

she  laid, 
Wifelike,   her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he 

veil'd 
His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as 

falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and 

swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the 

nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre 

face 
Seam'd  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty 

years : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 

round 
Ev'n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keenly,  foUow'd 

out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,   as  a  footsore  ox  in  crowded 

ways 
Stumbling  across  the   market  to  his 

death, 
Unpitied  :  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and 

seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  news 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch'd  the 

door ; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot 

stood. 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect 

again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the 

gate 
Save  under  pall  with  bearers.    In  one 

month. 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her 

child : 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his 

house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the 

change. 
And   those   fixt  eyes  of  painted   an- 
cestors 
Staring  forever  from  their  gilded  w-alls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 

bead 


348 


SEA    DREAMS. 


Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  be- 
came 
Imbecile  ;   his  one  word  was   "  deso- 
late "  ; 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was 

he; 
But  when  the  second  Christmas  came, 

escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he 

felt, 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child ;  nor  wanted  at  his 

end 
The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds  ;  nor  from  tender 

hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  vanish'd 

race, 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was'  wholly  broken 

dowii. 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into 

farms  ; 
And  where   the   two    contrived    their 

daughter's  good, 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made 

his  run. 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain 

bores. 
The  rabbit  fondles  his   own  harmless 

face. 
The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin 

weasel  there 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA    DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  bom  and 
bred; 

His  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  orphan 
child  — 

One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three 
years  old  : 

They,  thinking  that  her  clear  german- 
der eye 

Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city- 
gloom, 

Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them, 
to  the  sea : 

For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  how- 
ever small : 


Small   were   his  gains,   and  hard  hi» 

work  ;  besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for 

the  man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)   like  the  little 

thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep ; 
>  And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credu- 

lousness. 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which 

lured  him,  rogue. 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peru- 
vian mine. 
Now   seaward-bound   for  health  they 

gain'd  a  coast. 
All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunnlng 

cave. 
At  close  of  day  ;  slept,  woke,  and  went 

the  next, 
The  Sabbath,   pious  variers  from  the 

church, 
To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer. 
Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple 

men, 
Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  ful- 
minated 
Against  the   scarlet  woman  and    her 

creed : 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms, 

and  shriek'd, 
"Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if 

he  held 
The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were   that   great   Angel ;  "  thus  with 

violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea ; 
Then  comes  the  close."    The  gentle- 
hearted  wife 
Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world  ; 
He  at  his  own  :  but  when  the  wordy 

storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 

the  shore, 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing 

caves. 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce 

believed 
(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer 

still 
Clung  to  their  fancies )  that  they  saw, 

the  sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now 
on  cliff, 


SEA    DREAMS. 


349 


Lingering  about  the  thymy  promonto- 
ries, 

Till  all  the  sails  were  darken'd  in  the 
west. 

And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  home- 
ward and  to  bed  : 

Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Chris- 
tian hope 

Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 

Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 

"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your 
wrath," 

Said,  "  Love,  forgive  him  "  :  but  he  did 
not  speak ; 

And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the 
wife. 

Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died 
for  all, 

And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men. 

And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their 
feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a 

full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 

foremost  rucks 
Touching,   upjetted   in   spirts  of  wild 

sea-smoke, 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 

and  fttll 
In  vast  sea-cataracts  —  ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the 

clitfs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.     At  this 

the  babe. 
Their    Margaret  cradled  near    them, 

wail'd  and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly 

cried, 
"  A  WTeck,  a  wTCck  !  "  then  tum'd,  and 

groaning  said, 

"  Forgive  I  How  many  will  say, '  For- 
give,' and  find 

A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 

To  hate  a  little  longer  !     No  ;  the  sin 

That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well 
forgive, 

Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 

Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are 
best  ? 

Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper 
first? 

Too  ripe,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late 
for  use. 


Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and 

beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their 

foes  ; 
And  sucii  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted 

him. 
Said,  '  Trust  him  not ' ;  but  after,  when 

I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him 

less  ; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  un- 

charity ; 
Sat  at  his  table  ;  drank  his  costly  wines  ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his 

talk ; 
Went  further,   fool  !  and  trusted  him 

with  all. 
All   my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen 

years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork  :  there  is  no  such 

mine, 
None  ;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing 

gold, 
Not  making.     Ruin'd  !  ruin'd  !  the  sea 

roars 
Ruin  :  a  fearful  night !  " 

"  Not  fearful ;  fair," 
Said  the  good  wife,  "  if  every  star  in 

heaven 
Can  make  it  fair  :  you  do  but  hear  the 

tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams?" 

"  O  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land. 
And  I  from  out   the   boundless  outer 

deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd 

one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath 

the  cliffs. 
I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless 

deep 
Bore  through    the  cave,   and    I   was 

heaved  upon  it 
In  darkness  :  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.     '  What  a  world,' 

I  thouglit, 
'To  live   in  I'    but   in   moving   on    I 

found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  slreara 

beyond : 


350 


SEA    DREAMS. 


And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand  :  then  out  I  slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that 

sings  : 
And  here  the  night-light  flickenng  in 

my  eyes 
Awoke  me." 

"That  was  then  your  dream,"  she  said, 
"  Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"  So  sweet.  I  lajf,"  said  he, 
"  And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the 

stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision  ;  for  I  dream'd  that 

still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me 

on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the 

brink : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd 

her  of  it: 
'  It  came,'  she  said,  '  by  working  in  the 

mines ' : 
O   then   to  ask  her  of  my  shares,   I 

thought ; 
And  ask'd  ;  but  not  a  w-ord  ;  she  shook 

her  head. 
And  then  the   motion  of  the  current 

ceased, 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder  ;  and  we 

reach'd 
A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  burs  and 

thorns  ; 
But  she  with  her  strong   feet  up  the 

steep  hill 
Trod  out  a  path  :  I  follow'd  ;  and  at  top, 
She  pointed  seaward :  there  a  fleet  of 

glass. 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under 

me. 
Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thun- 
der, past 
In   sunshine  :  right    across    its   track 

there  lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold. 
Or  what  seem'd  gold  :  and  I  was  glad 

at  first 
To  think  that  in  our  often-ransack'd 

world 


Still  so  much  gold  was  left ;  and  then  I 

fear'd 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter 

on  it, 
And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn 

them  off; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 
(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  van- 

ish'd,  and  I  woke, 
I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.  Now  I  see 
My  dream  was  Life  ;  the  woman  honest 

Work  ; 
And  my  poor  venture   but  a  fleet  o^ 

glass 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

"  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled 
down  and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medi- 
cine in  it  ; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and 
broke  your  dream  : 

A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"  No  trifle,"  groan'd  the  husband  ; 

"  yesterday 
I  met  hmi  suddenly  in  the  street,  and 

ask'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my 

dream. 
Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.     '  Show 

me  the  books  ! ' 
He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose 

account. 
'  The  books,  the  books  ! '  but  he,  he 

could  not  wait. 
Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death  : 
When   the   great   Books   (see   Daniel 

seven  and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant 

me  well ; 
And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and 

ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes   the    widow  lean.     '  My 

dearest  friend. 
Have  faith,  have  faith  !     We  live,  by 

faith,'  said  he  ; 
'  And  all  things  work  together  for  the 

good 


SEA    DREAMS. 


Ill 


Of  those  '  —  it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 

him  —  last 
Gript  my  hand  hard,   and  with  God- 

bless-you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that   had  received  a 

blow: 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  ac- 
counts, 
A  loose  one  in  the   hard  grip  of  his 

hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you  :  then  my 

eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far 

away. 
Among  the  honest   shoulders   of  the 

crowd, 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 
And  scoundrel  in  the    supple-sliding 

knee." 

"  Was  he  so  bound,   poor  soul  ? " 

said  the  good  wife  ; 
"  So  are  we  all :  but  do  not  call  him, 

love. 
Before   you    prove    him,    rogue,    and 

proved,  forgive. 
His  gam  is  loss  ;  for  he  that  WTongshis 

friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears 

about 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  him- 
self 
The  prisoner  at   the  bar,   ever   con- 

demn'd : 
And  that  drags  down  his  life  :   then 

comes  what  comes 
Hereafter:  and  he  meant,  he  said  he 

meant, 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you 

well." 

"  •  With  all  his  conscience  and  one 

eye  askew '  — 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you 

may  leana 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 
Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of  yours  — 
*  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 

askew, 
So   false,   he  partly  took  himself  for 

true  ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart 

was  dry, 


Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round 

his  eye  ; 
Who,  never  naming  Cod  except  for  gain, 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain ; 
Made  him  His  catspaw  and  the  Cross 

his  tool. 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe 

and  fool  ; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he 

forged. 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he 


gorged  ; 
ind  oft  at  Hible 


And  oft  at  Hible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and 

Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself 

had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  she  said, 
"  I  loathe  it :  he  had  never  kindly  heart. 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind. 
Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had 

one 
That  altogether  went  to  music?    Still 
It  awed  me." 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

—  "  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor, 

lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died ;  and,  as  it  swell'd, 

a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 

the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fulness,  on 

those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same 

as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs 

no  more, 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  .ige. 
Grave,  florid,  stem,  as  far  as  eye  could 

see, 
One  af\cr   one :   and   then   the   great 

ridge  drew. 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 


352 


S£A    DREAMS. 


And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  again 
Slow!)'  to  music  :  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder 

fell ; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin 

left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters 

round, 
Some  crying,  '  Set  them  up  !  they  shall 

not  fall ! ' 
And  others,  '  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have 

fall'n.' 
And   still   they  strove   and  wrangled  : 

and  she  grieved 
In  her  strange  dream,   she  knew  not 

why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note  ;  and  ever  as  their 

shrieks 
Ran  highest  up  tlie  gamut,  that  great 

wave 
Returning,   while  none  mark'd  it,  on 

the  crowd 
Broke,    mixt    with    awful    light,    and 

show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,    and    passionate    looks,    and 

swept  away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men 

of  stone, 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

"Thenlfixt 
My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images. 
Both    crown 'd    with    stars    and    high 

among  the  stars, — 
The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her 

child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster- 
fronts  — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  tlie  motlicr,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and 

I  woke. 
And  my  dream  awed  me  :  —  well  —  but 

what  are  dreams  ? 
Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a 

glass. 
And  mine   but   from   the  crying  of  a 

child." 

"  Child  ?     No  ! ''  said  he,  "but  this 
tide's  roar,  and  his. 
Our    Boanerges    with    his    threats,  of 
doom, 


And  loud-lung'd  Antibabj-lonianisms 
(Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there") 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream  :  but  it 

there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd 

about, 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far 

too  like 
The   discords  dear  to    the   musician. 

No  — 
One   shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the 

hymns  of  heaven  : 
True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in 

tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil !  " 

"  '  True  '  indeed  ! 

One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 

Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on 
the  shore  ; 

While  you  were  running  down  the 
sands,  and  made 

The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-fur- 
below flap, 

Good  man,  to  please  the  child.  She 
brought  strange  news. 

Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to- 
night ? 

I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving 
him 

Before  you  knew.  We  must  forgive  the 
dead." 

"  Dead  !  who  is  dead  ?  " 

"  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him. 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-dis- 
ease." 

"Dead?  he?  of  heart-disease?  what 
heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead  !  " 

"Ah   dearest,  if  thereby 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too. 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge 

him  with. 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.     But  your 

rough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the 

child  again. 
Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep  !  will  she  not 

sleep 


THE    GRA  NDMO  TflER. 


Without  her  '  little  birdie  '  ?  well  then, 

sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  '  birdie.'  " 

Saving  this, 

The  woman  half  tum'd  round  tVum  liim 
she  loved, 

Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro' 
the  night 

Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  be- 
side) 

And  half  embraced  the  basket  cradle- 
head 

With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the 
pliant  bough 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nest- 
ling, sway'd 

The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby 
song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
\n  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 
Let  me  tly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  tly  aivay. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  Ioni;er, 
Then  she  flies  away. 


Wiiat  docs  little  baby  say. 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer. 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

"  She  sleeps :  let   us  too,  let  all  evil, 

sleep. 
He   also  sleeps  —  another   sleep  than 

ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong  :  forgive  him, 

dear, 
And  1  shall  sleep  the  sounder  !  " 

Then  the  man, 
*'  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  lo 

come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be 

sound  : 
I  do  forgive  him  1 " 

"Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  ai»d 
they  slept 


THE    GRANDMOTHER. 
I. 

And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  .Anne  ? 
Ruddy  and  wiiite,  and  strong  oa  his  legs,  \m  1o()';s  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written  :  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy  :  he  would  n't  take  my  advice. 

II. 
For,  Annie,  you  see.  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save. 
Hadn't  a  hjad  to  miiitge,  and  dra;ik  himsjif  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty  I  but  I  wis  aiiiast  it  for  one. 
Eh  !  —  but  he  would  n't  hear  me  — and  Wiiiy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

III. 
Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eld;st-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock  ; 
Never  a  man  could  fling  him  :  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 
"  Here  's  a  leg  foi  a  babe  of  a  week  I  "  says  doctor  ;  and  he  would  be  bound. 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 


Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue  1 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him  :   I  wonder  he  went  so  young. 
I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  :   I  Inve  not  iong  to  .stay  : 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 

23 


354  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 

V. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ?  you  think  I  am  hard  and  cold  ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  n.e,  I  am  so  old  : 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

VI. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my  dear, 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie  :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time  :  I  knew,  but  1  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar  ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise. 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies. 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight. 

IX. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day  ; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 


And  I  cried  myself  wellnigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 

The  moon  like  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 


All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt :  there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Willy,  —  he  didn't  see  me,  — and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew  how  ; 
Ah,  there  's  no  fool  like  the  old  one  —  it  makes  me  angry  now. 


Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant ; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  courtesy  and  went. 
And  1  said,  "  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred  years  it  '11  all  be  the  same, 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name." 

XIII. 

And  he  tum'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine  : 
"  Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand :  we  too  shall  be  happy  still." 


THE   GRANDMOTHER. 

XIV. 

**  Marry  you,  Willy  ! "  said  I,  "but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind. 
And  I  tear  you  Ml  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind." 
But  he  tum'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer' d,  "  No,  love,  no' 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  daurliag,  seventy  years  ago. 


So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded  :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown  : 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  bom, 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thom. 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  thit  never  had  drawn  a  breath. 

I  had  not  wept,  little  .Anne,  not  since  I  had  been  a  wife  ; 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  tor  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 


His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain  : 

I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body  —  his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him  another  morn  : 

But  1  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  bom. 

x^'III. 
But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay  : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he  ;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way : 
Never  jealous  —  not  he  :  we  had  many  a  happy  year  ; 
And  he  died,  and  1  could  not  weep  —  my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 

xix. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too.  then  could  have  died : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  vears  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they  're  all  about  me  yet. 

XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 
Patter  she  goes,  mv  own  little  Annie,  an  .Annie  like  you  : 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  .she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will. 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughmg  the  hill 

XXI. 

And  Harrv  and  Chariie,  I  hear  them  too  —  they  sing  to  their  teamj 
Often  thev  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  mv  chair,  thev  hover  about  my  bed  — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there  's  none  of  them  left  alive  ; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixtv,  your  father  at  sixty-five  : 
And  Willv,  mv  eldest  born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten ; 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they  're  elderly  men. 


2S6  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve  ; 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve  : 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I  ; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 


To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad : 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had ; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease  i 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Pejice. 


And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life  ;  but  I  would  not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that 's  all,  and  long  for  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best 


So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-bom,  my  flower ; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour,  — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next ; 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time  have  I  to  be  vext  ? 

XXVII. 

And  Willy's  wife  has  wiitten,  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  :  thank  God  that  1  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  sliall  have  past  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now  :  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN    FARMER. 

OLD    STYLE. 


Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  Hggin'  'ere  aloan  ? 

Noorse  ?  thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse  :  whoy,  doctor  's  abean  an'  agoan : 

Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  yaa'e  :  but  I  beiint  a  fool : 

Git  ma  my  yaale,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to  break  my  rule. 


Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says  what 's  nawways  true  : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  yaale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere, 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 


Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin  'ere  o'  my  bed. 
"The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  'a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 


NORTHERN  FARMER.  j5; 

IV. 

I  arn'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  lam. 

But  a  cost  oop,  thot  a  did,    boot  Bessy  Marris's  barn. 

Thof  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  \vi'  Sciuoire  an'  cliourch  an  staate, 

An'  i'  the  woost  o"  toiines  1  wur  uiver  ajjiu  the  raiile. 

V. 

An'  I  hallus  corned  to  's  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bunimin'  awa:iy  loike  a  biuzard-clock*  ower  my  yead, 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad  summul  to  saay, 
An  1  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owl  to  "a  said  an'  I  corned  awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy  Marris's  barn  !  tha  knaws  she  laiiid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  'a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  sheii. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  I  kep  un,  my  lass,  tha  inun  understood ; 
I  done  ray  duty  by  un  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 

VII. 

But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freeS 

"The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'eS. 

I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thof  suminiin  said  it  in  'aaste  : 

But  a  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  1  'a  stubb'd  Thomaby  waaste. 

VIII. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  bom  then  ; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  un  mysen  : 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,  t  for  I  'eerd  un  aboot  an  aboot. 

But  I  stubb'd  un  oop  wi'  the  lot,  and  raaved  an'  rembled  un  ooL 

IX. 

Reaper's  it  wur  ;  fo'  they  fun  un  theer  a  laaid  on  'is  faace 
Doon  i'  the  woild  'enemies  t  afoor  I  corned  to  the  plaace. 
No.iks  or  Thimbleby  —  toner  'ed  shot  an  as  dead  as  a  naiilL 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  lor  it  oop  at  'soize  —  but  git  ma  my  yaale. 

X. 

Dubbut  looak  at  the  waaste  :  theer  war  n't  not  fead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  looak  at  it  now  — 
War  n't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer  's  lots  o'  fead. 
Fourscore  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  doon  in  sead. 

XI 

Kobbut  a  bit  on  it's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to 'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thruff  it  an'  all, 
If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nolibut  let  ma  aloan, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's  an*  load  o'  my  oin. 

XII. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a  's  doing  a-taSkin'  o'  mea? 
1  bea'nt  wnnn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea  ; 
An'  Squnire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  deara'dear  ! 
And  I  'a  monaged  for  Squoire  come  Michaelmas  thirty  year. 

•  Cockchafer.  t  Bittern.  1  Anomon»«. 


3S8 


TIT  HON  US. 


A  mowt  'a  taiiken  Joanes,  as  'ant  a  'aapoth  o'  sense. 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taiikeu  Robins  —  a  niver  mended  a  fence: 
But  godamoishty  a  moost  taake  niea  an'  taake  ma  now 
Wi  'auf  the  cows  to  cauve  au'  Thornaby  holms  to  plow  ! 


Looak  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  sees  ma  a  passin'  by, 

Says  to  thessen  navv  doot  "  what  a  mon  a  be  sewer-ly  !  " 

For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  corned  to  the  'All ; 

I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  1  done  my  duty  by  all. 


Squoire  's  in  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  *ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  who  's  to  hovvd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to  Joaties, 
Noither  a  moant  to  Robins  —  a  niver  rembles  the  stoans. 


But  summun  'nil  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team. 
Gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 
But  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  it. 


What  atta  stannin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  yaale  ? 
Doctor  's  a  'tottler,  lass,  and  a  's  hallus  i'  the  owd  taale  ; 
I  weant  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws  raw  moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  yaale  I  tell  tha,  an'  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay 

and  fall. 
The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the 

ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 

beneath. 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the 

swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes  :   I  wither  slowly  in  thine 

arms. 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a 

dream 
The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls 

of  mom. 
Alas  !  for  this  gray  shadow,   once  a 


So    glorious    in  his    beauty  and   thy 

choice. 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he 

seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a 

God! 
I  ask'd  thee,  "Give  me  immortality." 
Then   didst   thou    grant   mine   asking 

with  a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how 

they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd 

their  wills, 
And  beat  me  down   and   marr'd  and 

wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left 

me  maim'd 
To   dwell    in    presence    of   immortal 

youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth. 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.    Can  thy  love. 


TITHONUS. 


359 


Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even 

now, 
Close   over   us,    the    silver    star,    thy 

guide, 
Shmes  in   those   tremulous  eves  that 

fill  with  tears 
To  hear  me  ?     Let  me  go :  take  back 

thy  gift  : 
Why    should   a    man    desire    in    any 

way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men. 
Or    pass    beyond    the    goal   of   ordi- 
nance 
Where  all   should   pause,  as  is   most 

meet  for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart ;  there 

comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I 

was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer 

steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and   from  thy 

shoulders  pure. 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  re- 

new'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the 

gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close 

to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the 

wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke, 

arise. 
And  shake   the   darkness  from   their 

loosen'd  manes. 
And  beat   the  twilight  into  flakes  of 

fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beauti- 
ful 

In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer 
given 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my 
cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  .scare  me  with 

thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying 

learnt, 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 

true .' 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall 

their  gifts." 


Ay  me  !  ay  me  I   with  what  an.thcr 

heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what   other 

eyes 
I   used   to   watch  —  if  I   be   he    that 

waich'd  — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee  ; 

saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings  ; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and 

felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  criro- 

son'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I 

lay. 
Mouth,     iorehead,    eyelids,    growing 

dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening 

buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 

kiss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild 

and  sweet. 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo 

sing. 
While  I  lion  like  a  mist  rose  into  tow- 
ers. 

Yet   hold   me   not   forever  in  thine 

East : 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with 

thine  ? 
Coldly   thy   rosy   shadows  bathe   me, 

cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrin- 
kled feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when 

the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about 

tiie  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to 

die, 
And   grassy  barrows  of  tlie   happier 

dead. 
Release   me,  and  restore   me   to   the 

ground  ; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 

grave  : 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  mom  by 

mom  : 
I   earth   in   earth   forget  these  empty 

courts. 
And     thee    returning     on    thy    silver 

wheels. 


36a 


THE    VOYAGE. 


THE   VOYAGE. 
I. 
We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

Tiiat  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth  ; 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  lleetcd  to  tl.e  Soulh : 
How  fresh  was  every  siglit  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  iorevermore. 


Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the 
brow, 
Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 
Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd 
the  gale. 
The   broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the 
keel. 
And  swept  behind  :  so  quick  the  run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 
We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun  ! 


How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Tall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn  ! 


New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view  ; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field. 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield; 


The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

Hi^jh  tosvns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen, 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker 
sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 


By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 

Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  quivering 
brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  last. 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glovv'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 

VII. 

O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes. 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  burn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark  ; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers. 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 

But   we   nor  paused   for  fruits  nor 
flowers. 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night, 
And  still  we  foliow'd  where  she  led. 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen. 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line  ; 
But    each    man    murmured,    "  O   my 
Queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine." 


And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like   Heavenly   Hope  she  crown'd 
the  sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed, 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 

X. 

And  only  one  among  us  —  him 

We   pleased   not — he   was  seldom 
pleased  : 
He  saw  not  far  :  his  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
"  A  ship  of  fooLs,"  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

"A  ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd  and 
wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 


THE  FLOWER.  —  THE  SAILOR-BOY 


361 


XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  fiirl'd. 

Nor  anclior  dropt  at  eve  or  morn  ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world, 

But  hws  of  nature  were  our  scorn  ; 
For  blasts  would   rise   and   rave  and 
cease. 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove 
the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace. 

And  to  and  thro'  the  couuter-gale  ? 


Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led  : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame. 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 
But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound 

We  follow  that  which  tlies  before  : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  forevermore. 


IN    THE    VALLEY    OF    CAU- 
TERETZ. 

All    along    the   valley,    stream    that 
flashest  white. 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  night. 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 
flow, 

I  walk'd   with   one  I  loved   two  and 
thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the'  valley  while  I  walk'd  to- 
day. 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist 
that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all   along   the   valley,   down   thy 
rocky  bed 

Thy  living   voice   to   me  was   as   the 
voice  of  the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 
cave  and  tree. 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living 
voice  to  me. 


THE    FLOWER. 
Once  in  a  golden  hour 

I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 
Up  there  came  a  flower. 

The  peoole  said,  a  weed. 


To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  Huwer. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light. 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flo\\ers  now, 
For  ail  have  got  tl>e  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where    yon     broad    water    sweetly 
slowly  glides. 

It  sees  itself  Irom  tiiatch  to  base 
Dream  m  the  slidnig  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah  how  soon  to  die  .' 
Her  quiet   dream  of  life  this  hour 
may  cease. 

Her  i>eaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
lo  some  more  jMirfect  j^eace. 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

Hk  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o  er  the  seething  harbor-bar. 

And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the 
rope. 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  .star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"  (J  Hoy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
1  see  the  p  ace  where  thou  wiit  he. 

"The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreaiy  bay. 


362 


THE   ISLET.—  THE   RINGLET. 


And  vW  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 
And   in   thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall 
phy." 
"  Fool,"  he  answer' d,  "  death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and    tlio^e   that 
roam, 
But  I  will  nevermore  endure 
To  ^it  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

*  My  m,>lher  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisiars  crying,  '  Stay  for  shame  ' ; 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, 
i'hey  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
Llama. 

'  God  help  me  1  save  I  take  my  part 

Of  dang3r  on  the  roaring  sea, 
A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  tc  me." 


THE   ISLET. 
"Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we 

go- 
For  a  score  of  sweet  httle  summers  or 

so?" 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said 
On  the  day  that  follow'd  the  day  she 

was  wed ; 
"Whither,   O  whither,  love,  shall  we 

go?" 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash, 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor 

rash. 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd, 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd, 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow. 
To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I 

know, 
A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd ; 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the 

Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain 

flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine." 


"Thither,  O  thither,  love,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  no,  no  ! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear. 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical 

throat. 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note. 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 
"  Mock  me  not  !  mock  me  not  !  love, 

let  us  go." 

"  No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom 

on  the  tree. 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely 

sea. 
And  a  worm  is  there   in   the  lonely 

wood, 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens 

the  blood, 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


THE   RINGLET. 

"Your  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden-gay. 
If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one, 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 
And  then    shall  I  know  it   is  all  true 

gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of 

old, 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold, 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  1." 


"  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet. 

That  art  so  golden -gay. 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray  ; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may 
hint. 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say  ; 
For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss, 
And   r  swear  henceforth  by  this  and 

this. 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss, 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away." 


A    If'ELCO.UE    TO  ALEXAXDRA.  —OPE. 


3*3 


"  Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  1." 


0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet. 

I  kiss'd  vou  nisjht  and  day, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Kinglet, 

You  still  are  colden-gay, 
But  Rinclet,  ()  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray  : 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold, 

She  that  gave  you  's  bought  and  sold. 
Sold,  sold. 


O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  ro^v  red. 
When  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  vou  from  her  head, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
"  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
O  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 
You  golden  lie. 


O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 

For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 
You  put  me  much  to  sliame. 

So  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 
I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn. 

Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  ? 

Hum,  you  glossy  heretic,  bum, 
Burn,  bum. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

March  7,  1863. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  overthe  sea, 

-Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of 

thee, 

Alexandra  ! 
Welcome    her,    thunders    of   fort  and 

of  fleet  ! 
Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the 

street  1 


Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and 

sweet. 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet  ! 
Break,  iLTjipy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  I 
Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-bud- 
ded bowers  ! 
Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and 

prayer  ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 

ours ! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  tmmpet.  blare  ! 
Flags,    tlutter  out    upon    turrets    and 

towers  ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  fl.ire  ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 
Clash,  ye   bells,   in  the  merry  March 

air  ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  river?  of  fire  ! 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 

higher 
Melt  into  the  stars  for  the  land's  desire! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  tlie 

strand. 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the 

land. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's 

desire. 
The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as 

fair. 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir. 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 

sea  — 
O  joy  to  the   people,  and   joy  to  the 

throne. 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your 

own  : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be. 
We  are  e.ich  all  Dane  in  our  welcome 

of  thee, 

Alexandra  ! 


ODE  SUNO  MIHE  OPENINT. 

OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL 

EXHIMiriON. 

Uplift   a   thou.sand  voices    full   and 

sweet, 

In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  invcn 

tion    stored. 
And   iirai>e    th'  in\-isible  universal 
Lord, 


364 


THE   CAPTAIN. 


Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  na- 
tions meet, 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have 
outpour'd 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our 
feet. 

O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubi- 
lee, 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks 
to  thee  ! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine, 

And  lo  !  the  long  laborious  miles, 

or  Palace  ;  lo  !  the  giant  ais'.es, 

Rich  in  model  and  design  ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry, 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine. 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine  1 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main. 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of 


O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 
reign, 

From  growing  commerce  loose  her 
latest  chain, 

And  let  the  fair  white-winged  peace- 
maker fly 

To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 

And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden 
hours. 

Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all 
men's  good, 

And  all  men  work  in  noble  brother- 
hood, 

Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed 
towers. 

And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  pow- 
ers. 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  jieace 
and  crown'd  with  all  her  flowers. 


A  DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time 

himself 
Can    prove   you,    tho'  he    make    you 

evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall  —  take  this,  and  pray 

that  he. 
Who   wrote   it,    honoring   your  sweet 

faith  in  him, 
May  trust  himself;  and  spite  of  praise 

and  scorn. 
As  one  who  feels  the   immeasurable 

world. 
Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the  wise ; 
And  after  Autumn  past  —  if  left  to  pass 
His     autumn     into     seeming -leafless 

days  — 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  long- 
est night. 
Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the 

fruit 
Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 

flower.* 


THE    CAPTAIN. 

A    LEGEND    OF    THE    NAVY. 


He  that  only  rules  by  terror 

Doeth  grievous  wron^. 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error, 
Let  him  hear  my  song. 
,  "f  BraVe  the  Captain  was  :  the  seamen 
Atade  a  gallant  crew, 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 

Snilors  bold  and  true. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression, 
I  '       Stern  he  was  and  rash  ; 

So  for  every  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
DaV  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 
^-     Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
'    *  Setrret  wrath  like  smolher'd  fuel 
Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
"Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory. 
Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 
fi  ^     Wheresoe'er  he  came. 
''     So  they  past  by  cane=-.  and  islands, 
jNIany  a  harbor-mouth, 

•  The  fniU  of  the  Sphidle-trce  {Euoiiy. 
mus  Europcuu.-). 


THREE   SOX  NETS    TO   A    COQUETTE. 


36s 


1 


Sailing  iindei  palmy  liighlands 

Far  wit  111  11  the  South. 
On  a  day  \vlien  they  were  going  *•    ,'' 

O'er  the  lone  expanse,  ^ 

In  the  North,  lier  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  color  heighten'd, 

Joyful  came  his  speech  :       ^  C 
But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
"Chase,"  he  said:  the  ship  flew  for- 
ward, 

And  the  wind  did  blow  ;  ^^^ 

Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norvvard^^^ 

Till  shenear'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated. 

Had  what  they  desired  : 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 

Not  a  gun  was  fired.  «/(^ 

But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Kuanng  out  their  doom  : 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom, 
Spars    were     splinter'd,    decks    were^<^ 
shatter'd,  '/ 

Bullets  fell  like  rain; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars    were    splinter'd ;    decks    were  Jtf 
broken :  -^ 

Every  mother's  son  — 
Down  theydropt  —  no  word  was  spo- 
ken — 

E:\cli  beside  his  gun.  ^  ^ 

On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying,      ^  '^ 

Were  their  faces  grim.  •' 

In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying. 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  \\\  whom  he  had  reliance     , 

For  his  noble  name,  [g  X) 

With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 
Sh.ime  and  wrath  his  he.irt  confounded. 

Pale  he  turn  d  and  red,  ,   ^ 

Tii!  hnnself  was  deadly  wounded  ^  ^ 

V  \\\\\vi  on  the  dead. 
Di5m.ll  error  !  fearful  slaughter  I 

Years  have  wander'd  by. 
Side  bv  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Captain  lie  ; 
Thete  tlie  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

Oei  them  mouldering, 
A!ul  the  lonely  seabird  crosses        •"* /  1 

With  one  waf't  of  the-vviuij.         /  ^7 


7O 


THREE   SONNETS  TO   A 
COQUETTE. 

Caress' D  or   chidden   by  the  dainty 

hand. 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 

Light    Hope   at    Beauty's  call   would 

perch  and  stand. 

And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp 

and  flat : 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow 
sat. 
When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 
band. 
And  chased  away  the  still-recun-inji 
gnat. 
And  woke    her  with  a  lay  from    fairy 

land. 
But  now  they  live  with   Beauty  less 
and  leSs, 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wan- 
ders far. 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious 
creeds ; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness. 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star, 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of 
reeds. 


The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent  1 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her 

rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly 
drest. 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplish* 

ment  : 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went. 
My  fancy  made   me   for   a  moment 

blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beau- 
teous breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  con- 
tent. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once 
could  move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smile* 
restore  — 
For  ah  !  the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love. 
And  if  you  kiss'd  her  feet  a  thousand 
years. 
She   still  would   take  the  praise, 
and  care  do  more. 


366 


ON  A    MOURNER.  — SONG. 


3- 

Wan  Sculptor  weepest  thou  to  take  the 
cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near 
thee  lie  ? 

0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 

past, 
In  painting  some  dead  friend  from 

memory  ? 
Weep  on  :  beyond  his  object  Love  can 

last  : 
His  object  lives  :  more  cause  to  weep 

have  I  : 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing 

fast, 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love 

can  die. 

1  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 
Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she 

sits  — 
Ah  pity  —  hint  it  not   in    human 
tones, 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 
Which  somegreen  Christmas  crams 
with  weary  bones. 


ON   A  MOURNER. 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies. 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 
Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 

base. 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place  ; 

2. 

Fills  out  the  homely  quick-set  screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  drop- 
ping snipe, 
With  moss  and  braided  marish-pipe  ; 


And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays. 

Saying,  "  Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 

Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime." 


And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 


Teach   that    sick    heart  the   stronger 
choice. 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 

Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn, 
Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and 
bride. 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  mom, 
With  that  fair   child  betwixt  them 
born. 

6. 
And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 

Theblacknessround  the  tombing  sod, 
Thro'  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have 

trod. 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god 

7- 

Promising  empire  ;  such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 

Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  herose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


SONG. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  dnims 
Beat  to  battle  w  here  thy  warrior  stands  : 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 
Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and 
thee. 


SONG. 

Home  they  brought   him  slain  with 

spears. 
They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 
Echoes  in  his  empty  hall. 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field, 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance. 

Beat  upon  his  father's  shield  — 

"  O  hu«h,  my  joy.  my  sorrow." 


BOADICEA. 


EXPERIMENTS 


BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  jjrove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  East  Boadic^a,  standing  loftily  charioted. 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  CAmulodiine, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

"  They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's  barbarous  populaces, 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating? 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish?  shall  I  brook  to  be  supplicated? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  'Irinobant  ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven  !  bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcass  a  skeleton. 
Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolf  kin,   from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it. 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended  !  lo  their  colony,  Camulodiine  ! 
There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a  barbarous  adversary. 
There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a  gluttonous  emperor-idiot- 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  :  hear  it,  Spirit  of  Cissivelaiin  1 

"  Hear  it,  Gods  !  the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  Icenian,  O  Coritanian  I 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 
Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  murmur  heard  aerially, 
Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred. 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men  ; 
Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary  ; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering  — 
There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me — down  their  statue  of  Victory  felL 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  CAmulodiine. 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson?  shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful? 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ?  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously? 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant  I 
While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating. 
There  I  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mvstical  ceremony. 
Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  pro|>hetesses. 
'  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets  1 
Tho'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gaihermg  enemy  narrow  the*. 


363  EXPERIMENTS. 

Tliou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet  ! 

Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 
'  Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

I  Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

I  Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 

So  they  chanted  :  how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 
]  Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated. 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators  ! 
See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy  ! 
Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  CAmulodiine  ! 
There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory, 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness  — 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 
Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whiri'd. 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Ciinobeline  ! 
There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 
Rolling  on  their  purple' couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ;  there  —  there  —  they  dwell  no  mo-o. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary, 
Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it.  hold  it  abominable. 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness. 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out, 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us." 

So  the  Queen  Boadic^a.  standing  loftily  charioted. 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-hke, 
Yell'd  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  In  her  fierce  volubility, 
Till  her  people  all  around  the  roval  chariot  agitated, 
Madlv  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments. 
Made  the  noise  of  frostv  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colonv  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the' buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand, 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tvrannles,  all  her  pitiless  avarice. 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously, 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 
Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary.  ^ 
Fell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  London,  Verulara,  Camulodune. 


AV  QUANTITY.  )6g 

IN   QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Alcaics. 


O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 

Slilton.  a  name  to  resound  for  ages; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 

Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset  — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 

And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palmwoods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


H  endecasyltabics. 

O  YOi;  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 

Irresponsible,  mdolent  reviewers, 

Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 

All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 

All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 

Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him, 

Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people. 

Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 

Should  1  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 

Thro'  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 

They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a  welcome, 

All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 

Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tumble, 

So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 

Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 

Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 

O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather  — 

Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  a  moment  — 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  inmost 

Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 

Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


370  EXPERIMENTS. 


SPECIMEN   OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF  THE   ILIAD 
IN   BLANK   VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his  host ; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own  ; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought,  and  heap'd 
Their  tirewood,  and  the  w  inds  from  off  the  plain 
Roll'd  the  rich  vaipor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  *  bridge  of  war 
Sat  glorying ;  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed  : 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid. 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shejiherd  gladdens  in  his  heart : 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  I'roy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain  ;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burnmg  fire  ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.t 

///^^  VIII.  542-561. 

*  Or,  ridge. 

t  Or  more  literally,  — 
And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  throned  morning. 


THE   COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


37> 


THE    HOLY    GRAIL, 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogran,    the  King   of  Came- 

liaid, 
Had    one   fair    daughter,    and   none 

other  child  ; 
And  she  was  fairest   of  all  flesh  on 

earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur 

came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging 

war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land  ; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen 

host 
Swarm' d  overseas,  and  harried  what 

was  left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wil- 
derness. 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 

more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 

came. 
For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and 

died. 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 

died. 
But  either  fail'd  to  make  the  kingdom 

one. 
And  after  these    King   Arthur  for  a 

space. 
And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table 

Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  un- 
der him, 
Their  king    and  head,    and  made   a 

realm,  and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was 
waste. 
Thick    with    wet  woods,  and   many  a 
beast  therein, 


And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 

beast ; 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar 

and  bear 
Came   night   and  day,  and  rooted  in 

the  fields. 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the 

king. 
And  ever  and  aaon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 

then. 
Her  osvn  brood  lo.>.t  or  dead,  lent  her 

fierce  teat 
To  human  sucklings  ;  and  the  children, 

housed 
In   her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat 

would  prowl. 
And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four 

feet, 
Till,   straichten'd,   they    grew    up   to 

wolf-like  men, 
Worse    than  the  wolves.    And  King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd  for  the  Roman  legions  here 

again. 
And  Cx'sar's  eagle  :  then  his  brother 

king, 
Rience,  assail'd  him  :  last  a  heathen 

horde. 
Reddening  the  sun   with  smoke  and 

earth  with  blood. 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  moth- 
er's heart 
Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till, 

amazed. 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn 

for  aid. 

But  —  for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 

crown'd, 
Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by 

those 
Who  cried,   "  He  is  not  Ulhcr's  son  " 

—  the  king 


372 


THE    COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Sent  to  him,  saying,  "  Arise,  and  help 

us  thou  ! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast 

we  die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed 

of  arms, 
But   heard  the  call,  and   came  :    and 

Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 

pass ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 

shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 
But  rode  a  simple  knight  among  his 

knights, 
And  many   of   these   in   richer  arms 

than  he. 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she 

saw. 
One  among  many,  tho'  his   face  was 

bare. 
But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he 

past, 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 

pilch'd 
His  tents  beside  the  forest.    And  he 

drave 
The  heathen,  and  he  slew  the  beast, 

and  fell'd 
The  forest,   and  let  in   the   sun,  and 

made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the 

knight ; 
And  so  return'd. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smoulder'd  in  the 

hearts 
Oftho.se  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his 

realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  into  war  :  for  most  of 

these 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  "  Who 

is  he 
That  he   should  rule  us.'    who   hath 

proven  him, 
King  Uther's  son  ?  for  lo  !  we  look  at 

him 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs 

nor  voice, 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we 

knew. 


This   is   the   son  of  Gorlois,  not   the 

king; 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king." 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  bat- 
tle, felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the 

life, 
Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere  ; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  "  Her  father 

said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 

they  die. 
Shall  I  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of 

beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with 

me? 
What  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext  —  O  ye  stars  that  shudder  over 

me, 

0  earth  that  soundest  hollow   under 

me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?  for  saving  I 

be  join'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 

Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 
realm 

Victor  and  lord.  But  were  I  join'd 
with  her. 

Then  might  we  live  together  asone  life. 

And  reigning  with  one  will  in  every- 
thing 

Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  light- 
en it. 

And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make 
it  live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle 

sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leo- 

dogran. 
Saying,    "  If  I  in  aught  have  served 

thee  well, 
Give  me  tliy   daughter   Guinevere  to 

wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran 
in  heart 
Debating  —  "  How  should  I  that  am  a 

king. 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need, 


THE   CO.mXG   OF  ARTHUR. 


373 


Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a 
king. 

And  a  king's  son"  —  lifted  his  voice, 
and  call'd 

A  hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to 
whom 

He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  re- 
quired 

His  counsel  :  "  Knowest  thou  aught 
of  Arthur's  birih?  " 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain 
and  said, 

"Sir  king,  there  be  but  two  old  men 
that  knovv : 

And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 

Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever 
served 

King  Uther  thro'  his  magic  art ;  and 
one 

Is  Merlin's  master  (so  they  call  him) 
Bleys, 

Who  taught  him  magic  ;  but  the  schol- 
ar ran 

Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that 
l^ieys 

Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 
wrote 

All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 

In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after- 
years 

Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arihur's 
birth." 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  re- 
plied, 

"O  friend,  had  I  been  hoi  pen  half  as 
well 

By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day, 

Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their 
share  of  me  : 

But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once 
more 

Ulfuis,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him, 
the  king  said, 

"  I  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by 
lesser  fowl, 

And  reason  in  the  chase  :  but  where- 
fore now 

Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of 
war, 

Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 


Others  of  Anton?  Tell  me,  jre  your- 
selves. 

Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uthcr'i 
son  ? " 

And  Ulfius  and  Brastias  answcr'd, 

"Ay." 
Then    Bedivere,  the   first  of  all    hi« 

knights 
Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 

spake  — 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act   and  word 

was  he. 
Whenever    slander   breathed  against 

the  king  — 

"Sir,    there    be    many    rumors    on 

this  head  : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in 

their  hearts, 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 

are  sweet. 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less 

than  man  : 
And   there  be   th'i'^e  who  deem  him 

more  than  in.in. 
And   dream   he  dropt   from    heaven  : 

but  my  belief 
In  all  this  matter— so  ye  care  to  leam — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's 

time 
The   prince  and   warrior   Gorlois,  he 

that  iield 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea. 
Was   wedded   with  a   winsome   wife, 

Vgerne  : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,— 

one  whereof. 
Lot's   wife,    tlie    Queen   of   Orkney, 

Bellicent, 
Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur, — but  a  son  she  had  not 

borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
Hut  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his 

love. 
That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  went  to 

war  : 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then    Uther  in    his   wrath   and  heat 

besieged 
Vgerne   within    Tintagil,    where    her 

men, 


374 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 

walls, 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd  in, 
And   there  was   none   to  call   to   but 

himself. 
So,   compass'd   by  the  power  of  the 

king, 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in   her 

tears. 
And  with  a  shameful  swiftness :  after- 
ward, 
Not  many  moons.    King   Uther  died 

himself. 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 

wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 

new  year. 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his 

time 
Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as 

born 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  a|)art 
Until  his  hour  should  come ;  because 

the  lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of 

this. 
Wild  beasts,  and   surely  would   have 

torn  the  child 
Piecemeal    among    them,    had    they 

known  ;  for  each 
But  sought   to  rule    for   his  own  self 

and  hand, 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.    Wherefore  Merlin  took 

the  child. 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,    an  old 

knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther  ;  and  his 

wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd 

him  with  her  own  ; 
And  no  man  knew.     And  ever  since 

the  lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 

themselves. 
So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  ; 

but  now. 
This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour 

had  come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in 

the  hall, 


Proclaiming,    '  Her"  is  Uther's  heir, 

your  king,' 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  '  Away  with 

him  ! 
No  king  of  ours  !  a  son  of  Gorlois  he, 
Or  else   the   child  of  Anton,  and  no 

king. 
Or  else  baseborn.'     Yet  Merlin  thro' 

his  craft. 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a 

king. 
Had   Arthur  crown'd  ;  but  after,  the 

great  lords 
Banded,   and  so  brake   out   in   open 

war." 

Then  while  the  king  debated  with 

himself 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shameful- 

ne.ss, 
Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after  death. 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his 

time. 
Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  any- 
thing 
Said    by  these   three,  there  came  to 

Cameliard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her 

two  sons, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bel- 

licent ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would, 

the  king 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  ai 

meat, 

"A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  sum- 
mer seas  — 

Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court :  think 
ye  this  king  — 

So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they 
be  — 

Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen 
down  ? " 

"  O  king,"   she  cried,  "  and  I  will 

tell  thee  :  few. 
Few,  but  all  brave,    all  of  one  mmd 

with  him  ; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage 

yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthuf 

sat 


THE   COMIXG 

OF  ARTHUR.                               375 

Crown'd  on  the  dais,  and  liis  warriors 

She   gave   the   king  his   huge  cross- 

cried. 

hilted  sword. 

•  Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 

Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out :  a 

thy  will 

mist 

Who    love  thee.*     Then  the  king  in 

Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her 

low  deep  tones. 

face 

And  simple  words  of  great  authority, 

Wellnigh   was  hidden  in  the  minster 

Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his 

gloom  ; 

own  self. 

But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy 

That  when  they  rose,  knighted   from 

hymns 

kneeling,  some 

-A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 

Were    pale    as   at    the   passing  of  a 

Down   in   a   deep,    calm,   whatsoever 

ghost. 

storms 

Some  flush'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the 

who  wake-; 

surface  rolN, 

Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

Hath  power  to  walk  the    waters  like 

our  Lord 

"  But  when  he  spake  and   cheer'd 

his  Table  Round 

"  There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibur 

With   large    divine   and    comfortable 

Before  him  at  his  crowning  burne,  the 

words 

sw,.rd 

Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee  —  I  be- 

That rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 

held 

lake, 

From  eve  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order 

And    .Arthur   row'd  across    and  took 

flash 

it  —  rich 

A  momentary  likeness  of  the  king : 

With  jewels,  elfm  Urim,  on  the  hilt. 

And  ere    it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the 

Bewildering     heart      and     eye  —  the 

cross 

blade  so  bright 

And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 

That  men  are  blinded  by  it  —  on  one 

Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 

side. 

smote 

Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 

Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 

world. 

rnys. 

'  Ta^e  me.'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you 

One   falling   upon   each   of  three  fair 

shall  see. 

queens, 

And  written  in    the  speech  ye  &pe.ik 

Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 

yourself. 

the  friends 

'  Cast  me  away  ! '     And  sad  was  Ar- 

Of Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 

thur's  face 

bright 

Taking   it,  but  old  Merlin  counseli'd 

Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his 

him. 

need. 

*  Take  thou  and  strike !  the  lime  to 

cist  away 

"  And  there   I   s.iw   mage    Merlin, 

Is  yet  far  off'     So   this  gre.it   brand 

whose  vast  wit 

the  king 

And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 

Took,  and  bv  this  will  beat  his  foemen 

hands 

down." 

Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

Thereat    I^odogran   rejoiced,    but 

"And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of 

thought 

the  Lake, 

To  sift  his  doublings  to  the  last,  and 

Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his 

ask'd. 

own  — 

Fixing  full  eves  of  question  on  her  face, 
"  1  he  swallow  and  the  swif^  are  near 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 

derful. 

akin, 

376 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


But    thou   art    closer  to    this  noble 

prince, 
Being  his  own  dear  sister"  ;  and  she 

said, 
"  Daughter   of  Gorlois    and    Ygerne 

am  I  "  ; 
"And     therefore     Arthur's    sister?" 

ask'd  the  King. 
She     answer'd,     "These     be     secret 

things,"  and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them 

be. 
And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into 

song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow'd  by  his  flying 

hair 
Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he 

saw  : 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the 

doors. 
And  there  half  heard  ;  the  same  that 

afterward 
Struck   for   the   throne,    and  striking 

found  his  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer, 

"  What  know  I  ? 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 

hair, 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I  ;   and 

dark 
Was  Gorlo'is,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 

too, 
Wellnigh  to  blackness  ;  but  this  king 

is  fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  I  hear  her  say, 
'  O  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty 

one. 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of 

the  world.'  " 

"  A3',"  said  the  King,  "  and  hear  ye 
such  a  cry  ? 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee 
first  ?  " 

"  O  king  !  "  she  cried,  "and   I  will 

tell  thee  true  : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet   a   little 

maid  : 
Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 


Whereof  I  was  not  guilty  ;  and  out  I 

ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  of 

heath. 
And   hated    this    fair   world    and   all 

therein, 
And   wept,    and    wish'd  that    I   were 

dead  ;  and  he  — 
I    know   not    whether   of  himself   he 

came, 
Or  brought   by  Merlin,  who,  they  say, 

can  walk 
Unseen  at  pleasure  —  he   was  at    my 

side. 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comfort- 
ed my  heart. 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with 

me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  ever- 
more 
As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me  ;  and 

sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him 

was  I, 
Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved 

him  not, 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him 

well. 
And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and 

less, 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours 

for  me. 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be 

king. 

•'  But  let  me  tell  thee  now  anothei 

tale  : 
For    Bleys,  our    Merlin's  master,  as 

they  say. 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to 

nie 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his 

life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the 

mage. 
And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  him- 
self 
And    Merlin   ever   served  about  the 

king, 
Uther,    before   he   died,    and   on    the 

night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the 

two 


THE   COMIXG   OF  ARTHUR. 


377 


Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth 

to  breathe. 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the 

chasm 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night  — 

a  night 
In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and 

earth  were  lost  — 
Beheld,    so    high    upon    the    dreary 

deeps 
It  seem'd  in  heaven,  a  ship,  the  shape 

thereof 
A  drajjon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to 

stern 
Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the 

decks. 
And  gone  as  soon  as  s^en.     And  then 

the  two 
Dropt    to  the  cove,  and  watch'd  the 

great  sea  fail. 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than 

the  last. 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,   gathering  half 

the  deep 
And    full  of  voices,  slowly  rose    and 

plunged 
Roaring,  and  all  the   wave  was  in   a 

flame  : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame 

was  borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's 

feet. 
Who  stnopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 

cried  "  The  King  ! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther  ! '  And  the 

fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the 

strand, 
Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the 

word, 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in 

fire, 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed 

in  fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  follow'd  calm, 
Free  sky  and  stars  :     'And  this  same 

child,'  he  said, 
'  Is  he  who  reigns  ;  nor  could  I  part  in 

peace 
Till  this  were  told.'     And  saying  this 

the  seer 
Went    thro'    the   strait    and   dreadful 

jnss  of  death. 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 


Save  on  the  further  side  ;    but  when 

I  met 
Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things 

were  truth  — 
The    shining    dragon   and  the  naked 

child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 
He  laugh'd   as   is  his  wont,  and  an- 

swer'd  me 
In   riddling  triplets  of  old  time,   and 

said  : 

"  '  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow 

in  the  sky  ! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by  : 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he 

die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  on 

the  lea  ! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to 

thee  ; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it 

be. 
Rain,  sun,  and  rain  !  and  the  free 

blossom  blows  : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun  !  and  where  is  he 

who  knows? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes.' 

"  So  Merlin  riddling  anger'd  me  ; 

but  thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only 

child, 
Guinevere  :  so  great  bards  of  him  will 

siug 
Hereafter  ;  and  dark  .sayings  from  •! 

old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds 

of  men. 
And  echod  by  old   folk  beside  their 

fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is 

done. 
Speak  of  ihe  king  ;  and  Merlin  in  our 

time 
Hath  spoken   also,   not   in  jest,   and 

sworn 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 

not  die. 
But  pass,  again  to  come  ;  and  then  or 

now 
Utterlv  smite  the  heathen  nnd-rfoot. 
Till   the-e   .ind   all  men  haiJ  him  for 

their  king." 


378 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


She  spake  and  King  Lcodogran  re- 
joiced, 
Bat  musing  "  Sliall  I  answer  yea  or 

nay  ?" 
Doubted,  and  drowsed,    nodded   and 

slept,  and  saw, 
Dreaming,    a  slope   of  land  tliat  ever 

grew. 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the 

peak 
Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a  phantom 

king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost ;  and  on 

the  slope 
The   sword   rose,  the    liind    fell,    the 

herd  was  driven. 
Fire  glimpsed  ;  and  all  the  land  from 

roof  and  nek, 
In   drifts  of    smoke   before   a   rolling 

wind, 
Stream'd   to   the   peak,  and  mingled 

with  the  haze 
And  made  it  thicker  ;  while  the  phan- 
tom king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice  ;  and  here  or 

there 
Stood   one   who   pointed    toward   the 

voice,  the  rost 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  "  No  king 

of  ours, 
Nosonof  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours"  ; 
Till    with    a    wink    his    dream     v\as 

changed,  the  haze 
Desccndcfl,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in 

heaven, 
Crown'd.      And     Leodogran    awoke, 

and  sent 
Ulfius,  and  I'.rastias  and  Hedivere, 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answer- 
ing yea. 

Then    Arthur   charged  his   warrior 

whom  he  loved 
And    honor'd  most,    Sir  Lancelot,  to 

ride  forth 
And  bring  the  Queen  ;  —  and  watch'd 

him  from  the  gates  : 
And  Lancelot  past    away  among  the 

flowers, 
(For  then   was  latter   April)  and    re- 

turn'd 
Among    the    flowers,    in   ^L^y,     with 

Guinevere. 


'I'o  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 

saint. 
Chief  of  the  church  in    Britain,  and 

before 
'J'he  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the 

king 
That    morn   was    married,   while    m 

stainless  white. 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time. 
And  glorying  in  their  \ows  and  hmi, 

his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 


joy. 
And    h( 


loiy   Dubric   spread  his  hands 

and  spake, 
"  Reign  ye,   and  live  and  love,    and 

make  the  woild 
Other,  and   may   thy   Queen  be  one 

with  thee. 
And    all     ihis    Order  of  thy    Table 

l\ound 
Fulfil  the  l:oundless  purpose  of  their 

king." 

Then  at  the  marriage  feast  came  in 

from  Rome, 
The   slowly  -  fading    mistress   of    the 

world. 
Great  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute 

as  of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,  "  Behold,  for  these 

have  sworn 
To   fight    my   wars,  and   worship  me 

their  king ; 
The    old    order     changeth,    yielding 

place  to  new  ; 
And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father 

Christ, 
Seeing  that  yc  be  grown  too  weak  and 

old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Ro- 
man wall. 
No  tribute  will    we   pay  "  :  so   those 

great  lords 
Drew    back    in     wrath,    and    Arthur 

strove  with  Rome. 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for 

a  space 
Were    all  one     will,  and    thro'    that 

strength  the  king 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under 

him, 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


371 


Fought,  and  in   twelve  great   battles 

overcame 
The    heathen    hordes,   and    made    a 

realm  and  rei^n'd. 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 

From    noiseful  arms,   and    acts  of 

prowess  done 
In  tournament  or  tilt.  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom    Arthur    and    his    knigiithood 

call'd  The  Pure, 
Had    pass'd   into    the   silent    life   of 

prayer. 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms  ;  and  leaving  for 

the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,    there,  and  not    long 

after,  died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the 
rest, 

Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond 
the  rest, 

And  honord  him,  and  wTOught  into 
his  heart 

A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  with- 
in, 

To  answer  that  which  came  :  and  as 
they  sat 

Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darken- 
ing half 

The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 

That  pulf  d  the  swaying  branches  into 
smoke 

Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he 
died. 

The  monk  Ambrosius  question'd 
Percivale  : 

"O  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew- 
tree  smoke, 

Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred 
years  : 

For  never  have  I  known  the  world 
without. 

Nor  ever  stray'd  beyond  the  pale  :  but 
thee. 

When  first  thou  camest  —  such  a  cour- 
tesv 

Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the 
voice —  I  kn«w 


For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's 

hall  : 
For  good  ye  are  and  Lad,  aud  like  to 

coins. 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one 

ol  you 
Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King  ; 

and  now 
Tell   me,   what   drove  thee   from    the 

1  able  Round, 
My   brother  .'  was  it  earthly    passion 

Croat."*  " 

"  Nay."  said  the  knight  ;  "  for  no 

such  passion  mine. 
But   the   sweet    vtoion   of   the    Holy 

(J  rail 
Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rival- 
ries. 
And   earthly    heats   that    spring   and 

sparkle  out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 

waich 
Who  wins,  who  falls  :  and   waste  the 

spiritual  slreitKih 
Within     us,     belter      otTer'd     up     to 

Heaveu." 

To  whom  the  monk:  "The    Ho'y 

Grail  !  —  I  trust 
We  are  green   in    Heaven's  eyes  ;  bat 

here  too  much 
We  mo  ilder  — as  to  things  witliout  I 

mean  — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights  •>  Ruest 

of  ours, 
To'd  usof  this  in  our  refectory. 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadiie>s  and  so 

hiw 
We    heard    not    half  of  what  he  said. 

What  is  it  .> 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and 

goes  .>  " 

"  Nay,   monk  !    what    phantom  ?  " 

answer'd  Percivale. 
"The  cup,  the  cup  itseif.   from  which 

our  Ix)rd 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his 

own. 
lliis,  from  the  blessed  land   of  Am- 

mat  — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  ibe 

dead 


38o                                         THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

Went  wandering   o'er    Moriah  —  the 

Nun  as   she  was,   the  scandal  of  the 

good  saint, 

Court, 

Arimathaian        Joseph,       journeying 

Sin    against    Arthur  and    the   Table 

brought 

Round, 

To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 

And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulter- 

Blossoms   at    Clirislmas,    mindful   of 

ous  race, 

our  Lord. 

Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 

And   there  awhile   it  bode  ;  and  if  a 

Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the 

man 

more. 

Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd  at 

once, 

"  And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 

By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.     But  then  the 

or  what 

times 

Her  all    but   utter  whiteness  held  for 

Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 

sin, 

Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  dis- 

A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 

appear'd." 

Spake   often   with  her   of   the    Holy 

Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or 

To  whom  the    monk  :  "  From  our 

old  books  I  know 

six, 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glaston- 

And each  of  these  a  hundred  winters 

bury, 

old, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvira- 

From    our   Lord's  time.      And  when 

gus. 

King  Arthur  made 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 

His    Table     Round,   and    all    men's 

build  ; 

hearts  became 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from 

Clean    for   a  season,    surely   he    had 

the  marsli 

thought 

A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore. 

That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come 

For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours, 

again  ; 

but  seem 

But  sm  broke  out.     Ah,  Christ,  that  it 

Mute   of  this  miracle,  far  as  I   have 

would  come, 

read. 

And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wick- 

But who  first  saw   the  holy  thing  to- 

edness ! 

day  ?  " 

'  0  Father  1  '  asked  the  maiden,  'might 

it  come 

"A   woman,"   answer'd   Percivale, 

To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting? '  'Nay,' 

"a  nun, 

said  he, 

And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from 

'  I  know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 

me 

snow.' 

Than  sister  ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 

And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the 

With   knees   of   adoration   wore    the 

sun 

stone. 

Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her, 

A  holy    maid  ;    tho'  never    maiden 

and  I  thought 

glow'd, 

She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when 

But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maiden- 
hood. 
With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human 

I  saw  her. 

"  For  on  a   day  she  sent  to  speak 

love, 

with  me. 

Which  beinj;  rudely  blunted,  glanced 

And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold 

and  shot 

her  eyes 

Only   to  tK>ly   things ;  to  prayer  and 

Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beauti- 

praise 

ful, 

She  gave  herself,  to   fast   and  alms. 

Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonder- 

And yet. 

ful, 

THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


3^1 


Beautiful  in  the  lipht  of  Iioliness 
And  *  O    my   brother,   Percivale,'  she 

said. 
•  Sweet  brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy 

Grail  : 
For,  ^aked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard  a 

sound 
As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 
Ulow-n,  and  I  thought,   "  It  is  liot  Ar- 
thur's use 
To   hunt    by   moonlight " ;    and    the 

slender  sound 
As  from  a  distance   beyond   distance 

grew 
Coming  upon  me  —  O  never  harp  nor 

horn, 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or 

touch  with  hand. 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came  ;  and 

then 
Streamd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  sil- 
ver beam. 
And   down   tlie  long  beam   stole    the 

Holy  Grail, 
Rose-red   with    beatings    in    it,   as  if 

alive. 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 

dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wa'l  ; 
And  then   the   music  uded,  and  the 

Grail 
Pass'd,   and  the  beam  decay'd,  and 

from  the  walls 
The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 
So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and 

pray. 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast 

and  pray, 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be 

seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world 

be  heal'd.' 

"  Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I 
spake  of  this 

To  all  men  ;  and  myself  fasted  and 
pray'd 

Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a 
week 

Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  utter- 
most, 

Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would 
be. 


"  And  one  there  was  among  u»,  ever 

moved 
Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 
*  God    m.ike    ihce    good  as   thou  art 

beautiful,' 
Said    Arthur,    when    he   dubb'd   him 

knight :  and  nor.e. 
In  so  young  youil>,  was  ever  made  a 

knight 
Till  Galahad  ;  and  this  Galahad,  «hen 

he  heard 
My    sister's    vision,    fiil'd    me    «nlh 

amaze  ; 
His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 

seem"d 
Hers,  and   himself  her  brother  more 

than  I. 

"S    ter  or  brother  none  had  he; 

but  some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 

said 
Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers 

they. 
Like  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and 

dowTi, 
That   gape  for  flies  —  we  know  not 

whence  they  come  ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly 

lewd  ? 

"But   she,  the   wan   sweet  maiden 

shore  awav 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth 

of  hair 
Which    made  a   silken  mat-work   for 

her  feet  ; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 

long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and   wove   with 

silver  thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange  de- 
vice, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam  : 
And  saw  the  bright  boy  knight,  and 

bound  it  on  him. 
Saying,   '  My    knicht,   my    love,   my 

knight  of  he.»vcn, 
O  thou,  my  love,  *ho*e   love  is  one 

«ith  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind 

my  belt. 
Go   forih.  for   thou   »halt   »ee   what  I 

h.ive  seen. 


382 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 
Far  in  tlie  spiritual  city  '  :  and  as  she 

spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her 

eyes 
Thro'  him,   and   made  him  hers,  and 

laid  her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  In  her  belief 

"  Then  came  a  year  of  miracle  :  O 
brother, 

In  our  great  liall  there  stood  a  vacant 
chair, 

Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 

And  carven  with  strange  figures  ;  and 
in  and  out 

The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 

Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could 
read 

And  Merlin  call'd  it  '  The  Siege  per- 
ilous,' 

Perilous  for  good  and  ill  ;  '  for  there,' 
he  said, 

*  No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 
himself  : 

And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin 
sat 

In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost  ;  but 
he, 

Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's 
doom. 

Cried,  '  If  I  lose  myself  I  save  my- 
self !  ' 

"  Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came 
to  pass, 

While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 
hall. 

That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Mer- 
lin's chair. 

"  And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat, 
w«  heard 

A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs, 

And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  over- 
head 

Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a 
cry. 

And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the 
hall 

A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more 
clear  than  day  : 


And  down   the  long  beam   stole  the 

Holy  Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  nor.e  might  see  who  bare  it,  and 

it  past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's 

face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose. 
And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb 

men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a 

vow. 

"  I   sware   a  vow  before  them  all, 

that  I, 
Because    I   had    not  seen   the  Grail, 

would  ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of 

it, 
Until  I  found   and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware 

the  vow, 
And  good    Sir   Bors,   our    Lancelot's 

cousin,  sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights. 
And  Gawain    sware,  and  louder  than 

the  rest." 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius, 
asking  him, 
"  What  said  the  King  ?     Did  Arthur 
take  the  vow?  " 

"  Nay,  for  my  lord,"  said  Percivale, 

"  the  king 
Was  not  in  hall :  for  early  that  same 

day. 
Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit 

hold, 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the 

hall 
Crying   on  help  :   for  all  her  shining 

hair 
Was  smear'd  with    earth,  and  either 

milky  arm 
Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and 

all  she  wore 
Torn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is 

torn 
In  tempest  :    so  the  king  arose  and 

went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 

wild  bees 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


333 


That  made  such  honey  in  liis  realm. 
Howbeit 

Some  litile  of  tliis  marvel  he  too 
saw, 

Returning  o'er  the  plain  that  then  be- 
gan 

To,  darken  under  Camelot  ;  whence 
the  king 

Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,  '  Lo  there  ! 
the  roofs 

Of  our  great  hall  are  rolled  in  thun- 
der-smoke ! 

Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by 
the  bolt.' 

For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of 
ours, 

As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his 
knights 

Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under 
heaven. 

"  O  brother,    had  you  kno%vn   our 

mighty  hall, 
Which  Merlin  built   for  Arthur  long 

ago  ! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof, 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  >pire. 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rush- 
ing brook, 
Climbs  to  the  mi;;htyhall  that  Merlin 

built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 

betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the 

hall  : 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying 

men. 
And  in   the  second  men  are   slaying 

beasts. 
And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect 

men. 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  grow- 
ing wings. 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Ot  Arthur,    made  by  Merlin,   with  a 

crown. 
And    peak'j    wings    pointed   to  the 

Northern  Star. 
And   eastward    fronts  the  statue,  and 

the  crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  flame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in    ar  fields, 


Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
Behold  it,    crying,    '  We   have   still  a 
king.' 

"  And,  brother,  had  you  known  oik 

hall  within. 
Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the 

lands  ! 
Where   twelve  great  windows  blazon 

Arthur's  wars, 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the 

board 
Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles 

of  our  King. 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 

end, 
Wealthy     with    wandering    lines  of 

mount  and  mere, 
Where  .Arthur  linds  the  brand,  Excal- 

ibur. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 

to  it. 
And  blank  :  and  who  shall  blazon  it  ? 

when  and  how  ?  — 
O  there,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars 

are  done. 
The  brand    Excalibur    will   be    cast 

away. 

"  So   to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode 

the  King, 
In    horror   lest    the   work   by    Merlin 

wroui^ht. 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  van- 
ish, wrapt 
In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and 

saw 
The  golden    dragon    sparkling    over 

all  : 
And  m.iny  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold, 

their  arms 
Hack'd.  and  their   foreheads  grimed 

with  sm4>ke,  and  -c.ir'd. 
Follow'd,  and  in  among  bright  face<s 

ours 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest :  and  then  the 

King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,    '  Pcrci- 

vaic.' 
(Becau'-c  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult  — 

sonie 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  '  what 


384 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


"  O  brother,  when  I  told  lilm  what 

had  chanced, 
My   sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,    his 

face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 

once, 
When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  be 

done  in  vain, 
Darken  ;     and    '  Woe     is     me,     my 

knights,'  he  cried, 
'  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn 

the  vow.' 
Bold  was  mine  answer,  '  Had  thyself 

been  liere, 
My  King,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.' 

'  Yea,  yea,'  said  he, 
'  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen 

the  Grail  ?  ' 

"  '  Nay,  Lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  I 

saw  the  light, 
But  since   I   did   not   see   the   Holy 

Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw.' 

•'  Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 

one  : 
'  Nay,    Lord,   and  therefore  have  we 

sworn  our  vows.* 

"  '  Lo  now,'  said  Arthur,  '  have  ye 
-•^een  a  cloud  ? 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see  ? ' 

"  Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 

in  a  voice 
Shrillins:    along  the   hall   to   Arthur, 

call'd, 
*  But    L    Sir  Arthur,    saw   the    Holy 

Grail. 
I  saw  the    Holy    Grail   and  heard   a 

crv  — 
O  Galahad,  and   O   Galahad,   follow 

me.' 

"  '  Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the 

King,  '  for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a 

sign  — 
Holier    is   none,    my    Percivale,  than 

slie  — 


A   sign    to  maim  this  Order   which    [ 

made. 
But  5'ou,  that  follow  but  the  leader's 

bell  ' 
(Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his 

knights) 
'  Taliessin    is    our    fullest    throat  of 

song. 
And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb 

will  sing. 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  over- 
borne 
Five    knights    at    once,   and    every 

younger  knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till    overborne    by   one,  he  learns  — 

and  ye, 
What  are  ye  ?     Galahads  ?  —  no,   nor 

Percivales ' 
(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 

me  close 
After  Sir  Galahad)  ;  *  nay,'  said   he, 

'but  men 
With   strength    and  will  to  right  the 

wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lav  the  sudden  heads  of  violence 

'flat, 
Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles 

splash'd  and  dyed 
The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own 

heathen  blood  — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind 

will  see. 
Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being 

made  : 
Yet  —  for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 

realm 
Pass  thro'  this  hall  —  how  often,  O  my 

knights, 
Your  places  bemg  vacant  at  my  side. 
This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come 

and  go 
Unchallenged,  while  you  follow  wan- 
dering fires 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?     Many  of  you, 

yea  most, 
Return  no    more  :    ye   think    I    show 

myself 
Too  dark  a  prophet  :   come  now,  let 

us  meet 
The  morrow  mom  once  more  in  one 

full  field 
Of  gracious  pastime,    that  once  more 

the  King, 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL.                                         385 

Before  you  leave  him  for  this  Quest, 

Wept,    and    the    King   himself  could 

may  count 

hardly  ^^)eak 

The  yet-mibroken  strength  of  all  his 

For  grief,    and  in   the   middle  street 

kniglits. 

the  Queen, 

Rejoicing    in   that    Order  which    he 

Who   rode   by    Lancelot,   wail'd   and 

made.' 

shrick'd  aloud. 

•  This  madueib  haa  come  on  us  for  our 

"  So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 

sins' 

under  ground. 

And   then    we    reach 'd  the    weirdly- 

All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 

sculptured  gate. 

And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so 

Where   Arthur's  wars   were  render'd 

full. 

mystically. 

So  many  lances  broken  —never  yet 

And  thence   departed   every  one  his 

Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since  Ar- 

way. 

thur  came. 

And    I    myself   and  Galahad,     for  a 

"  And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart,  a:.d 

strength 

thought 

Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 

Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the 

So  many  knights  that  all  the  people 

lists. 

cried. 

How    my  strong    lance   had    beaten 

And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 

downi  ihe  knights. 

heat. 

So  many  and  famous  names  :  and  nev- 

Shouting '  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Perci- 

er  yet 

vale  ! ' 

Had  heaven    appear'd  so  blue,   nor 

earth  so  preen. 

"  But  when  the  next  day  brake  from 

For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I 

under  ground  — 

knew 

0  brother,  had  you  known  our  Came- 
lot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so 

That  I    should  light  upon  the  Holy 
Grail. 

old 

"Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of 

The  King    him=;e!f  had  fears  that   it 

our  King, 

would  fall. 

That  rnost  of  us  would  follow  wander- 

So  strange,    and   rich,  and   dim  ;    for 

ing  fires. 

where  the  roofs 

Came  like  a  driving  gloom  across  my 

Totter'd  toward  eich  other  in  the  sky. 

mind. 

Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of 

Then  every  evil  word   I  had  spoken 

tho-e 

once. 

Who  watch'd  us  pass  ;  and  lower,  and 

And  everv  evil  thought  I  had  thought 

where  the  long 

of  old. 

Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh'd  the 

And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did. 

necks 

Awoke  and  cried,  *  Tins  Quest  is  not 

Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls. 

for  thee." 

Thicker    than    diops    from    thunder. 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  my- 

showers of  flowers 

self 

Fell  as  we  past  ;  and  men  and  boys 

Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  *and  and  thorns. 

astride 

And  1  was  thirsty  ev<--n  unto  death  : 

On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  s'van. 

And  I,  too,  cried,  '  This  Quest  is  not 

At  all  the  comers,  named  us  each  by 

for  thee.' 

name, 

Calling   '  God   speed  !  '     but    in    the 

"  And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 

street  below 

my  thirst 

The  kni'^^hts  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 

Would  slay  me,  s.iw  deep  lawns,  and 

and  poor    . 

3« 

then  a  brook, 

386                                          THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

With    one   sharp    rapid,    where    the 

Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me 

crisping  white 

moved 

Play'd   ever   back   upon   the   sloping 

In  golden  armor  with  a  crown  of  gold 

wave, 

About  a  casque  all  jewels;  and  his  horse 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye  ;  and  o'er 

In  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere  : 

the  brook 

And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the 

blind; 

brook 

And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 

Fallen,  and   on    the  lawns.        '  I   will 

world, 

rest  here,' 

Being  so  huge.     But  when  I  thought 

I    said,    '  I    am    not    worthy   of  the 

he  meant 

Quest'  ; 

To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo  !   he. 

But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and 

too. 

ate 

Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 

The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at 

came. 

once 

And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

he,  too, 

And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone 

thorns. 

And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and 

thorns. 

"And  then  behold  a  woman   at   a 

door 

"  And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mighty 

Spinning  ;    and  fair  the  house  whereby 

hill. 

she  sat. 

And   on   the  top,    a  city  wall'd  :    the 

And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  inno- 

spires 

cent, 

Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 

And   all   her  bearing  gracious ;    and 

heaven. 

she  rose 

And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd ; 

Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 

and  these 

should  say, 

Cried    to   me  climbing,     '  Welcome, 

'  Rest  here  ' ;  but  when  I  touched  her. 

Percivale  ! 

lo  !  she,  too, 

Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest  among 

Fell   into  dust  and  nothing,  and    the 

men  !  ' 

house 

And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found 

Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed. 

at  top 

And  in  it  a  dead  babe  ;  and  also  this 

No  man,  nor  any  voice.     And  thence 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

I  past 

Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 

"  And  on  I   rode,  and  greater  was 

Tiiat  man  had  once  dwelt  there  ;  but 

my  thirst. 

there  I  found 

Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the 

Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 

world. 

*  Where  isthat  goodly  company,'  said  I, 

And  where   it  smote  the  ploughshare 

'  That  so  cried  out  lipon  me ?'  and  he 

in  the  field. 

had 

The    ploughman    left   his   ploughing. 

Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet 

and  fell  down 

gasp'd 

Before   it  ;  where   it  ghtter'd  on    her 

'  Whence   and   what   art   thou  ?  '  and 

pail. 

even  as  lie  spoke 

The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell 

Fell  into  du'-t,  and  disappear'd,  and  I 

down 

Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in 

Before    it,    and   I  knew  not  why,  but 

grief. 

thought 

'  Lo,  if  I  find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 

'The  sun  is  rising,*  tho'  the  sun  had 

And   touch   it,    it   will    crumble   into 

risen. 

dust.' 

THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


JS; 


"  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly 

vale, 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where 

the  vale 
Was  lowest,  found  a  chapel  and  thereby 
A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage. 
To  whom  1  told  my  plianioms,  and  he 

said  : 

"  '  O  son. thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,   mother  of  them 

all; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 

Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
"Take  thou  my  robe,"  she  said,  "for 

ail  is  thine." 
And  all  her  form  shone  forthwith  sud- 
den light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and 

she 
Follow'd  him  down,  and  like  a  flying 

star 
Led  on  the  gray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the 

east  ; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known  :  for  svhat 

is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  anJ 

thy  sins? 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thy- 
self 
As  Galahad.'     When  the  hermit  made 

an  end, 
In   silver    armor    suddenly    Galahad 

shone 
Before  us  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter'd,  and  we  knelt 

in  prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burn- 
ing thirst 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone  :  but  he  : 
'  Saw  ye  no  more?     I,  Galahad,    saw 

the  Grail, 
The    Holy   Grail,    descend  upon   the 

shrine  \ 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and 

went  ; 
And  hither  am  I  come  ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to 

see. 
This  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side, 

nor  come 


Cover'd.    but  moving  with  me   night 

and  day. 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
blood  red,  and  slidmg  down  the  bUck- 

cn'd  ntarsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 

top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere 

below 
Blood  red.     And   in   the   strength  of 

this  I  rode, 
Shattermg   ail    evil    customs    ever)*- 

where. 
And  pa^t  thro'  Pagan  realms.and  made 

them  mine. 
And  cla^h'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and 

bore  them  d<iwii, 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  I  his 
Come  victor.      But  my  time  is  hard  at 

h.»..d. 
And  hence  I  go ;  and  one  will  crowu 

me  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city;  and   come 

thou,  too. 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I 

*'  While   thus  he   spake,   his   eye. 

dwellijig  on  mine. 
Drew  me.  with  power  upon  me,  till  I 

crew 
One  with  him.fo  believe  a"?  he  believed. 
Then,  when  tiie  day  began   to  wane, 

we  went. 

"  There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but 
Plan  C'liild  clinib. 

Scarr'd  with  a  luuulrOd  wintry  water- 
courses— 

Storm  at  the  tf-p,  and  when  we  gain'd 
it,  storm 

Round  ns  and  death  :  for  every  mo- 
ment glanced 

His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd  :  so  quick 
and  th'ck 

The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left 
and  rieht 

Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about 
us.  dead. 

Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of 
d.Mth. 

Sprang  intci  fire  :  and  at  the  base  we 
tuund 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great   black  swamp  and  of  an  evil 

smell. 
Part  black,    part    whiten'd  with  the 

bones  of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 

king 
Had  built  a  way,  where,  link'd   with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great  Sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge 

by  bridge. 
And   every   bridge  as   quickly   as  he 

crost 
Sprang   into  fire  and  vanish'd,  tho'  I 

yearn'd 
To  follow  ;  and  thrice  above  him  all 

the  heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such 

as  seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God  :  and 

first 
At  once  I  saw  him   far  on  the  great 

sea. 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous 

cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the 

boat 
If  boat  it  were  —  I  saw  not  whence  it 

came. 
And   when    the   heavens  open'd   and 

blazed  agnin 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star  — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had   the 

boat 
Become   a  living   creature    clad  with 

wings  ? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holv  vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  jov  to  me. 
For   now    I    knew  the  veil  had  been 

withdrawn. 
Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed 

again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  be- 
yond the  star 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city   and   all   her 

spires 
And  gateways    in   a  glory    like   one 

pearl  — 
No   larger,    tho'   the   goal   of  all  the 

saints  — 


Strike  from  the  sea  ;  and  from  the  star 
there  shot 

A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and 
there 

Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy 
Grail, 

Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall 
see. 

Then  fell  the  floods  of  lieaven  drown- 
ing the  deep. 

And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  death- 
ful  ridge 

No  memory  in  me  lives ;  but  that  I 
toiich'd 

The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know  ; 
and  thence 

Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy 
man. 

Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 
return'd 

To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Ar- 
thur's wars." 

"O  brother,"  ask'd  Ambrosius, — 

"  for  in  sooth 
These  ancient  books  —  and  they  would 

win  thee  —  teem, 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  n.arvels  liketo  these, 
Not  all   unlike  ;    which   oftentime    I 

read. 
Who   read   but  on  my  breviary  with 

ease, 
Till  my  head  swims ;  and  then  go  forth 

and  pass 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so 

close. 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's 

nest 
To  these  old  walls  —  and  mingle  with 

our  ffilk  ; 
And   knowing  every   honest   face   of 

theirs. 
As   well  as    ever  shepherd  knew  his 

sheep, 
.And  every  homely  secret  in  theirhearts. 
Delight    myself  with  gossip   and  old 

wives. 
And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  ly- 

ings-in, 
And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 

place. 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league 

away  : 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL.                                         38,, 

Or  lulling   random    squabbles  when 

And  while  I  tarried,  every  d.-»y  she  set 

tliey  rise. 

A  banquet  riclier  than  the  day  before 

Chaffenngs    and    chatterings    at  the 

By  nie  ;    for  ail  her  lunging  and  h»r 

market -cross. 

will 

Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 

Was  toward  me  as  of  old  ;  till  one  fair 

of  mine. 

morn. 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 

I  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 

e:4gs  — 

That  iiash'd  across  her  orchard  under- 

0 brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 

neath 

Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your 

Her  castle-walls,  she   stole  upon  my 

quest. 

walk. 

No  man,  no  woman  ?  " 

And  calling    me   the  greatest  of  all 

knights. 

Then,  Sir  Percivale  : 

Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the 

"  All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a 

tirst  time. 

vow. 

And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to 

And  women   were  as  phantoms.     0, 

me. 

mv  brother. 

Then  I  remember'd  Arthur's  warning 

Why   wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess 

word. 

to  thee 

That  must  of  us  would  follow  wander- 

How f.ir  I  falter'd  from  my  quest  and 

ing  fires. 

vow  .'' 

And  the    Quest   faded   in  my   heart. 

For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights 

Anon, 

A  bedinate   of  the  snail  and  eft  and 

The  heads  of  all  her  jieople  drew  to  me. 

snake. 

With  supplication  both  of  knees  and 

In  grass  and  burdock,  I  was  changed 

tongue  : 

to  wan 

•  We  have  heard  of  thee  :  thou  art  our 

And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not 

greatest  knight. 

come. 

Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe  : 

And  then   I  chanced   upon   a  goodly 

Wed  ihou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us. 

town 

And  thou   shalt  be   as  Arthur  in  our 

With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 

land." 

of  it; 

Ome,  my  brother  !  but  one  night  my 

Thither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  dis- 

\ow 

arm'd 

Burnt  me  within,  so   that  I  rose  and 

By  maidens  eich  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 

fled. 

Rut  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold. 

But  waii'd  and  wept,  and  hated  mine 

The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the 

own  self. 

one. 

And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but 

Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had 

her: 

ever 

Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  ('lalahad 

Made    my   heart   leap ;    for   when    I 

Cared  not  for  her,  nor  anyiiuug  upon 

moved  of  old 

earth." 

A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 

A  id  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 

Then  said   the  monk,  "  Poor  men. 

Went  after  her  with  longing  :   yet  we 

when  yule  is  cold.         ^ 

twain 

Af  u'lt  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fire*. 

Had   never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a 

And  this  am  L  so  that  ye  care  for  me 

vow. 

Ever  so    little ;     yea,   and    blest  be 

And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again. 

Heaven 

And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was 

That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor 

dead. 

house  c»f  ours 

And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 

Where  all  the  brethren  arc  so  hard,  to 

were  hers. 

warm 

390                                          THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 

My  cold  heart  with  a  friend  :    but  O 

And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  retum'd  ; 

the  pity 

For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  worship 

To  find  thine    own   first    love   once 

him 

more  —  to  hold, 

That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them  ;  to  Bors 

Hold  her  a  \Aealthy  bride  within  thine 

Beyond  the  rest  :  he  well  had  been  con- 

arms, 

tent 

Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  —  cast  her 

Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might 

aside, 

have  seen, 

Foregoing  all   her  sweetness,    like   a 

The  Holy  Cup  of  healing  :  and,  indeed. 

weed. 

Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and 

For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of  dou- 

love. 

ble  life. 

Small  heart  was  his  after   the   Holy 

We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of 

Quest  : 

something  sweet 

If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well :  if 

Beyond    all    sweetness    in   a 'life    so 

not, 

rich,  — - 

The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands 

Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly- 

of  heaven. 

wise, 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell, 

"  And    then,  with  small  adventure 

But  live  like  an  old'badger  in  his  earth, 

met,  Sir  Bors 

With   earth   about    him    everywhere. 

Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm, 

despite 

And  found  a  people  there  among  their 

All   fast  and  penance.     Saw  ye  none 

crags, 

beside. 

Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant   that 

None  of  your  knights  ?  " 

were  left 

Paynim  amid   their  circles,   and   the 

"  Yea  so,"  said  Pevcivale  : 

stones 

"  One    night    my   pathway   svvervinc: 

They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven  :  and 

east,  I  saw 

their  wise  men 

The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir 

Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which 

Bors 

can  trace 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 

The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scofTd 

And   toward   him  spurr'd   and  hail'd 

at  him 

him,  and  he  me, 

And  this  high  Quest  as   at  a  simple 

And  each  made  joy  of  either  ;  then  he 

thing  : 

ask'd, 

Told   htm"  he   follow'd  —  almost   Ar- 

' Where  is  he?  hast  thou  seen  him  — 

thur's  words  — 

Lancelot?'     'Once,' 

A  mocking  fire  :  '  what  other  fire  than 

Said  good  Sir  Bors,  '  he  dash'd  across 

he. 

me  — mad, 

Whereby   the   blood   beats,   and    the 

And   maddenmg  what  he  rode  :    and 

blossom  biows. 

when  I  cried. 

And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 

"  Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 

warm'd?' 

So  holy?"    Lancelot  shouted,  "Stay 

And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the 

me  not ! 

rough  crowd. 

I  have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I  ride 

Hearing  he  had  a  difTerence  with  their 

priests. 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged 

apace. 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 

So  vanish'd.' 

him  into  a  cell 

Of   great    piled     stones;     and    lying 

"Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 

bounden  there 

Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 

In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 

Because  his  former  madness,  once  the 

He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens 

talk 

sweep 

THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


39» 


Over    him,    till     by    miracle  —  what 

else?  — 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt  and 

fell, 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move  :  and  thro' 

the  gap 
Glimmer'd  the  streaming  scud  :  then 

came  a  ni^^la 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud  ;  and  thro'  the 

gap 
The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round  — 
For,  brother,  so  one   night,  because 

they  roll 
Thro'   such   a   round   in   heaven,   we 

named  the  stars, 
Rejoicing    in    ourselves    and    in   our 

king  — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 

friends. 
In  on  him  shone,  '  And  then  to  me,  to 

me,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  'beyond  all  hopes 

of  mine. 
Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for 

myself  — 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars  —  O  grace 

to  me  — 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
glided  and  past,  and   close   upon    it 

peal'd 
A  sharp  quick  thunder.'    Afterwards  a 

maid, 
Wlio  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him 

go." 

To  whom  the  monk  :  "  And  I  re- 
member now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque  :  Sir  Bors 

it  was 
Who   spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our 

board  ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was 

he  : 
A  square-set  man  and  hone.st ;  and  his 

eyes, 
An  out  door  sign   of  all   the  warmth 

within. 
Smiled  with  his  lips  —  a  smile  beneath 

a  cloud. 
But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny 

one  : 


Ay,  ay,  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?  But  wheo 
ye  reach'd 

The  city,  touud  ye  all  your  knights 
return'd. 

Or  was  there  sooth  in  Artliur's  proph- 
ecy, 

Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  wliat 
the  King?  " 

Then   answer'd  Percivale  :     "  And 

that  can  I, 
Brother,  aud  truly  ;    since  the  living 

words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our 


great 
King 


">g 

Pass  not  trom  door  to  door  and  out 
again. 

But  sit  within  the  house.  O,  when 
we  reacii'd 

The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they 
trode 

On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 

Crack'd  basilisks,  and  splintcrd  cock- 
atrices. 

And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left 
the  stones 

Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us 
to  the  hall. 

"  And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne. 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest. 

Wasted  and  woni,  and  but  a  tithe  of 
them. 

And  those  thnt  had  not,  stood  before 
the  King 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 
me  hail. 

Saying.  '  A  welfare  in  thine  eye  re- 
proves 

Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for 
thee 

On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 
ford. 

So  fierce  a  gal-  made  hivoc  here  of  late 

Among  the  strange  devices  of  our 
kings; 

Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  ha.l 
<ifours, 

And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded 
for  us 

Half-wrcitch'd  a  golden  wing ;  but 
now  —  the  quest. 


392 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


This  vision  — hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glas- 
tonbury ?  ' 

"  So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  hast 
heard, 

Ambrosias,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  re- 
solve 

To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 

He  aiiswer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning, 
ask'd 

Of  Gawain,  '  Gawain,  was  this  Quest 
for  thee  ? ' 

"  '  Nay,    lord,'   said    Gawain,   *  not 

for  such  as  I. 
Tlierefore  1  communed  with  a  saintly 

man, 
Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 

for  me  ; 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  Quest : 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  held. 
And    merry   maidens  in  it ;  and  then 

this  gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin. 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort  ;  yea,  and  but  for 

tliis. 
My    twelvemonth     nn  1   a    day    were 

pleasant  to  me.' 

"  He  ceased  ;  and  Arth'.ir  turn'd  to 

whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering, 

push'd 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,caught 

his  hand, 
Held   it,    and    there,    half  hidden   by 

him,  stood, 
Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to 

lilm, 
*  Hail,  Bors  !  if  ever  loyal   man   and 

tn;e 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail '  ; 

and  Bors, 
'  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it, 
I  saw  it  '  :    and  the  tears  were  in   his 

eyes. 

"  Then  there  remain'd  but  Lance- 
lot, for  the  rest 
Spake   but   of   sundry    perils   in   the 
storm ; 


Perhaps,   like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy 

Writ, 
Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last ; 
'  Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,'  ask'd  the 

King,  *  my  friend. 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd 

for  thee  ? 

"  '  Our  mightiest  ! '  answer'd  Lance- 
lot, with  a  groan  ; 
'  O   King  !  '  —  and  when  he  paused, 

methought  I  spied 
A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 
'  O  King,  my  friend,  if  friend  oi  thine 

Ibe, 
Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their 

sin, 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 

slime, 
Slime  of  the  ditch  :  but  in  me  lived  a 

sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of 

pure. 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and 

clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  whole- 
some flower 
And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as 

each. 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder  ;  and  when 

thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the 

hope 
That  could   I  touch  or  see  the  Holy 

Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder.  Then 

I  spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and 

said, 
That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asun- 
der, all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain  ;  to  whom 

I  vow'd 
That    I  would  work  according  as  he 

will'd. 
And  forth  I  went,  and  while  I  yearn'd 

and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart, 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old, 
And   whipt  me  into   waste  fields  far 

away  ; 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of 

my  sword 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


993 


And   shadow   of  my  spear  had   been 

eno.v 
To  scare   them   from   me  once ;   and 

then  1  came 
AM  in  my  tbiiy  to  the  naked  shore. 
Wide  dats,  where  nothing  but  coarse 

grasses  grew  ; 
But  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to 

blow. 
So  loud  a  blast  along  the  shore  and 

sea. 
Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the 

biasL, 
Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all 

the  sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  nver,  and  the  clouded 

heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 

sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd 

a  boat, 
Half-swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd  with  a 

chain  : 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said,        j 
"  I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself      | 
And  in  the  great  sea  wash   away  my     j 

sin."  I 

I   burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  tne     { 

boat. 
Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary 

deep, 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all 

the  stars  : 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 

night 
I   heard  the  shingle  grinding  in   the 

sui^e. 
And  felt   the  boat  shock  earth,  and 

!r*.)k!n?  up. 
Behold,  th-,-  enchanted  towers  of  Car- 
bo  nek, 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock. 
With  chasm-like  poruls  open  to  the 

sea. 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker  !  there 

was  none 
Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 
Then  from   the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up 

the  >ta  rs. 
There  dre  v  my  sword.     With  sudden- 

ti.iring  manes 


Those  two  great  beasts  rose  apncbc 

like  a  m.in. 
Each   gnpt   a  >li<julder,    and  1  stood 

betweeii  ; 
And,  when  I  would  have  smitten  them, 

heard  a  vuice, 
"  Doubt   not,   go  torward ;     if  tboa 

doubt,  the  beasts 
Will  tear  th;:e  piecemeaL"   Then  with 

vio^euce 
The  svkord  was  dash'd  from  out  my 

h.ind,  .T-d  fell. 
Ar 1  ■      •  • 

Bu 
No  . 

Or  shield  of  knight ;  only  the  rounded 

moo.n 
Thro'  the  :."  i 

But  alwa,. 

Clear  as  a    :  ■.. 

A  sweet  vu.ce   ^>.llo.:.g  v-  V.\<t  v  ,vin./*t 

tower 
To    the    eastward  :    up    I  cUmb'd    a 

ihou7>and  steps 
With  pain  :  as  u>  a  dream  I  seem'd  to 

climb 
Forever :  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light  was  in   the  cranniev   aod  I 

hear!. 
"Glory  a  -  1 

And  to  tl;- 
Tben   in  .e 

door  ; 
It  gave  ;  and  thro*  a  stormy  glare,  a 

heat 
As  'rom  a  seventimes-heaf e  \  furnace,  I, 
B.asteci  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I 


eness  that  I  swooo'd 
.,  i:    I  u«  the    Holy 


All    pall'd    in    crimson    aamite,   and 

ar.>ii-i.J 
Grc  •.  al  shapes,  and  winsi 

A*-  i  .  mtdne«sand  my  sin. 

And  the  I  :ny  sAuooins,  I  had  •worn  I 

saw 
That  which  I   saw :  but  what  I  saw 

was  veii'd 
Aod  cover'd  ;  aad  this  quest  was  ooC 

for  me.' 


394 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


"  So    speaking,    and   here   ceasing, 

Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain  — 

nay. 
Brother,  I  need  not  tell  thee  foolish 

words, — 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was  he. 
Now  boldeu'd  by  tiie  silence  of    his 

King,  — 
Well,   1  will  tell  thee  :  '  O  king,   my 

liege,'  he  said, 
'  Hath  Gawaiu  fail'd  in  any  quest  of 

thine? 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  foughten 

field? 
But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend,  Per- 

civale. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven 

men  mad, 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 

our  least. 
But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I 

swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat. 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl, 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Heucelorvvaid." 

"'Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  King, 
'  Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed  there  came  a  sign  from 

heaven. 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Per- 

civale, 
For    these    have  seen    according   to 

their  sight 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times. 
And  all  the  sacred  madnessof  the  bard. 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them, 

could  but  speak 
His  music  by  the  framework  and  the 

chord  ; 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

"  '  Nay  —  but  thou  errest,  Lancelot : 

never  yet 
Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 

and  man 
Twine   round    one    sin,   whatever    it 

might  be, 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there 

grew, 


Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou  spak- 
est  of. 

Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  no- 
bleness ; 

Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its 
flower. 

"  'And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  O  my 
knights  ? 

Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 

To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy 
Quest, 

That  most  of  them  would  follow  wan- 
dering fires. 

Lost  in  the  quagmire?  —  lost  to  me 
and  gone. 

And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board. 

And  a  lean  Order  —  scarce  return'd  a 
tithe  — 

And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision 
came 

My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw  ; 

Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 

And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right 
themselves, 

Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 

And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to 
face, 

And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in 
vain. 

However  they  may  crown  him  other- 
where. 

"  '  And  some  among  you  held,  that 

if  the  King 
Had   seen   the    sight  he  would  have 

sworn  the  vow : 
Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must 

guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the 

hind 
To  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to 

plough. 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted 

field. 
Before  his  work  be  done  ;  but,  being 

done. 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will  ;  and  many  a  time 

they  come, 
Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems  not 

earth. 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is  not 

light, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


39$ 


This  air  that  smites  his  foreliead  is  not 
air 

But  vision  —  yea,  his  very  hand  and 
foot  — 

In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot 
die, 

And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  him- 
self, 

Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that 
One 

Who  rose  a::;ain  :  ye  have  seen  what 
ye  have  seen.' 

"  So  spake  the  king  :    I  knew    not 
all  he  meant." 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to 

fill  the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest  ;  and  as  he  sat 
In  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder'd,  and  thro'  these 

a  youth, 
Pelleas.and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Poit,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with 

him. 

"  Make  me   thv  knight,  because   I 

know.  Sir  Kin^r, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 

love," 
Such  was  his  cry;  for  having  heard  the 

Ring 
Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament  —  the 

prize 
A  polden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword. 
Full  fam  had  PelJeas  for  his  lady  won 
The   golden   circlet,    for   himself  the 

sword  : 
And  there  were  those  who  knew  him 

near  the  King 
And  promised   for  him  :   and  Arthur 

made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight.  Sir  Pelleas  of 
the  isles  — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance. 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was  he  — 
Riding  at  noon,  a  dav  or  twain  before, 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the  sun 


Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm, 
and  reel'd 

Almost  to  falling  from  his  hor^  ;  but 
saw 

Near  him  a  mound  ofeven-sIopinR  ^ide. 

Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches 
grew. 

And  here  and  there  great  hoUics  under 
them. 

But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  o]>en 
space. 

And  fern  and  heath  :  and  slowly  Pel- 
leas  drew 

To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his 
good  horse 

To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down  ;  and  as 
he  lay 

At  random  looking  over  the  brown 
earth 

Thro'  that  green  glooming  twilight  of 
the  grove. 

It  seem'd  to  Peileas  that  the  fern  with- 
out 

Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emerald-s 

So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking 
at  it. 

Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  ofa  cloud 

Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  ofa  bird 

Flying,  and  then  a  fawn  ;  and  his  eyes 
closed. 

And  since  he  loved  all  maidens  but 
no  maid 

In  special,  half-awake  he  whisper'd, 
"  Where  ? 

O  where?  I  love  thee,  tho'  I  know 
thee  not. 

For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guine- 
vere, 

And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear 
and  sword 

As  famous  —  O  my  queen,  my  Guine- 
vere, 

For  I  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we 
meet." 

Suddenly  wakcn'd  with  a  sound  of 

talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood. 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles,  he 

saw. 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  *«a  of  fire. 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 


396 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARR&. 


Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  brack- 
en stood  : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly. 
And  one  was  pointing  this  wayj-and 

one  that. 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 
And  loosed  his  horse  and  led  him  to 

the  liglit. 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
"  In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 

ride, 
Arm'd   as  ye   see,  to  tilt  against   the 

knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our 

way  : 
To  right?    to  left?    straight  forward? 

back  again  ? 
Which?  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 

"  Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful  ?  " 

For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and 
her  bloom 

A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heav- 
ens. 

And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  wo- 
manhood, 

And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small 
her  shape, 

And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the 
haunts  of  scorn, 

She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle 
with. 

And  pass  and  care  no  more.  But  while 
he  gazed 

The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the 
boy,  ^     - 

As  tho'  it  were  the 'beauty  of  her  soul  : 

For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the 
good. 

Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 

Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 

All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul 
to  hers. 

Believing  her  ;  and  when  she  spake  to 
him, 

Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a 
reply. 


For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  h« 

come. 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had 

known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles. 
Rough  wives,that]augh'd  and  scream'd 

against  the  gulis. 
Makers  of  nets  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the 

lady  round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people  ;  and  as 

when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn, 
Ihe  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 
Spread   the   slow  smile   thro'  all   her 

company. 
Three  knights  were  thereamong  ;  and 

they  too  smiled. 
Scorning  him;  for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "  O  wild  and  of  the 

woods, 
Knowesi  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our 

speech  ? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a 

fair  face. 
Lacking  a  tongue  ? " 

"O  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 
"  I  woke   from  dreams  ;    and  coming 

out  of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 

crave 
Pardon  :  but  will  ye  to  Caer/eon?     I 
Go  likew  ise  :  shall  I  lead  you  to  the 

King?" 

"  Lead  then,"  she  said  ;  and  thro' 

the  woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in 

his  eyes. 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 

awe. 
His  broken   utterances  and  bashful- 

ness. 
Were  all  a  burden  to  her,  and  in  her 

heart 
She  mutter'd,  "  I  have  lighted  on  a 

fool. 
Raw,  yet  so  stale  !  "     But   since  her 

mind  was  bent 
On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 

name 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  title,  "  Queen  of  Deauty,"  in  the 

lists 
Cried  — and  beholding  him  so  strong, 

she  thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for  me, 
And  win  the  circlet  :  therefore  llatterd 

him, 
Being   so   gracious,  that  he   wellnigh 

deem'd 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd  ;  and  her 

knights 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious 

to  him, 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  siie. 
Taking  his  hand,  "  O  the  strong  hand," 

she  said, 
"  See  !   look  at  mine  !   but  wilt   thou 

fight  for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
Tnat  I  may  love  thee?  " 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried  "  Ay  !  wilt  thou 

if  I  win  :• " 
"Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and 

she  laugh'd. 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung 

it  from  her  ; 
Then   glanced   askew  at   those   three 

knights  of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  latigh'd  along  with 

her. 

"  O  happy  world."  thought  Pelleas, 

'"all,  meseems. 
Are  happy :    I  the   happiest  of  them 

all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his 

blood. 
And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves ; 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted, 

sware 
To  love  one  only.     And  as  he  came 

away. 
The  men  who    met  him    rounded   on 

their  heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his 

f.ice 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest 

of  old 


Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven:  »u  glad 
was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  x-ast  banquets, 

and  strange  knights 

From  the  four  winds  came  in  :  and 
each  one  sat, 

Tho'  served  wiih  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea. 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with  his 
eyes 

His  neighbor's  make  and  might:  and 
Pelleas  look'd 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  him- 
self 

Loved  of  the  King  :  and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 

Worshipt,  wiiose  lightest  whisper 
moved  him  more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the 
world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morning 

of  the  jousts, 
A  nd  this  was  ciil'd  "  The  Tournament 

of  Youth  "  : 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 

withheld 
His  Older  and  his  mightier  from  the 

lists. 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's 

love. 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.    And  Arthur  had 

tile  jousts 
Down  in  the  fl.tt  field  by  the  shore  of 

Usk 
Holden :    the    gilded    parapets  were 

crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fill'd 

with  eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets 

blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the 

field   ' 
With  honor :  so  by  that  strong  hand 

of  his 
The   sword   and   golden   circlet   were 

acliieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved  : 
the  heat 


398 


Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face 

eye 
Sparkled  ;  she  caught  the  circlet  from 

his  lance, 
And  there  before  the  people  crown'd 

herself. 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious 

to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space—  her 

look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her 

knight  — 
Linger'd  Ettarre  :  and  seeing  Pelleas 

droop, 
Said  Guinevere,  "  We  marvel  at  thee 

much, 

0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory  !  "     And 

she  said, 
"  Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in 

your  bower, 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."  Whereat 

the  Queen, 
As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant, 
Glanced  down    upon  iier,  turn'd  and 

went  her  way. 

But  after,  when   her  damsels,  and 

herself. 
And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 

faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  foUow'd.    She  that  saw  him 

cried, 
"  Damsels  —  and    yet    I    should    be 

shamed  to  say  it  — 

1  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.     Keep  him 

back 
Among  yourselves.  Would  rather  that 

we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 

worldly  way, 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with  :  take  him  to  you,  keep 

him  off. 
And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye 

will. 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep. 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell 

their  boys. 
Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry 

one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good  :  and  if  he  fly 

us, 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE 
her 


Small    matter!    let   him."     This   her 

damsels  heard. 
And  mindtul    of  her  small  and  cruel 

hand. 
They,    closing   round   him    thro'   the 

journey  home, 
Acted  her  hest,and  always  from  herside 
Reslrain'd  him  with  all  manner  of  de- 
vice. 
So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech 

with  her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  up- 

sprang  the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove. 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

"These   be    the   ways  of   ladies," 

Pelleas  thought, 
"To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of 

our  faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  1." 
So  made  his  moan  ;  and,  darkness  fall- 
ing, sought 
A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but 

rose 
With  morning  everyday,  and,  moist  or 

dry, 
Full-arm'd  upon  liis  charger  all   day 

long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 

him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn 

to  wrath. 
Then   calling  her   three  knights,  she 

charged  them,  "Out  ! 
And  drive  him  from  the  walls."     And 

out  they  came. 
But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as  they 

dash'd 
Against   him  one  by  one;  and  these 

return'd. 
But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath  the 

wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a  hate ; 

and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 

walls 
With  her  three  knights,  she  pointed 

downward,  "  Look, 
He  haunts  me  —  I  cannot  breathe  — 

besieges  me  ; 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA  R RE. 


399 


Down  I  strike  him  !  put  my  hate  into 

your  strokes, 
And  drive  liim  Irorn  my  walls."     And 

down  tliey  went. 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by 

one  ; 
And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried 

Ettarre, 
"  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in." 

He  I)eard  her  voice  ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 

the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one 

glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in 

his  bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "  Be- 

iiold  me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will : 
And  if  thou   keep  me  in  thy  donjon 

here. 
Content  am  I  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day  :  for  I  have  sworn  my 

vows. 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and 

I  know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my 

faith. 
And  that  thyself  when  thou  hast  seen 

me  strain'd 
And  silted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yield    me  thy  love  and  know  me  for 

thy  knight." 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 

mute  ; 
But  when  she  mock*d  his  vows  and  the 

great  King, 
Lighted  on  words  :  "  For  pity  of  thine 

own  self. 
Peace,  Lady,  peace  :  is  he  not  thine 

and  mine  ? " 
"  Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "  I  never  heard 

his  voice 
But  long'd   to  break   away.     Unbind 

him  now. 


And  thrust  him  out  of  doors  ;  for  save 

he  be 
Fool    to   the  midmost  marrow  of  hit 

bones. 
He  will  return  no  more."     And  those, 

her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 

from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  call'd  them,  sayuig,   "  There  he 

watches  yet, 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's 

door  ! 
Kick'd.  he  returns  :  do   ye   not  hate 

him.  ye  ? 
Ye  know  yourselves  :  how  can  ye  bide 

at  peace. 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence? 
Are  ve  but  creatures  of  the  board  and 

'  bed. 
No  men  to  strike?     Fall  on  him  all  at 

once. 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not :  if  ye  fail. 
Give   ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be 

bound. 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him 

in  : 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  inhisbonds. 

She  spake  ;   and   at   her  will   they 

couch'd  their  spears. 
Three  against  one  :  and  (jawain  pass- 
ing by. 
Bound  upon  solitar>'  adventure,  saw 
Low  down    beneath    the   shadow   of 

those  towers 
A  villany,  three  to  one:  and  thro'  his 

heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,  **  I  strike  upon 

thy  side  — 
The  caitilTs  !  "     '*  Nay,"  said  Pellea% 

'*  but  forbear : 
He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady's 

will." 

So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany 

done. 
Forbore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled   and  quivcr'd,  as  the  dog, 

withheld 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  »«e» 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and 

kills. 


400 


PEL  LEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 
tlnee  ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and 
brought  him  in. 

Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 
burn'd 

Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil 
name 

Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 
hound  : 

"Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit 
to  touch, 

Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and 
thrust  him  out. 

And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 
bonds. 

And  if  he  comes  again  "  —  there  she 
brake  short ; 

And  Pelleas  answer' d,  "  Lady,  for  in- 
deed 

I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beautiful, 

I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty 
marr'd 

Thro'  evil  spite  :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 

I  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  fore- 
sworn : 

I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love. 

Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you  —  fare- 
well ; 

And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my 
love. 

Vex  not  yourself:  ye  will  not  see  me 
more." 

While   thus  he    spake,   she  gazed 

upon  the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and 

thought, 
"  Why  have  I  push'd  him  from  me  ? 

.     this  man  loves, 
If  love  there  be  :  yet  him  I  loved  not. 

Why? 
I  deem'd  him  fool  ?  yea,  so  ?  or  that 

in  him 
A  something  —  was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self?— 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ?     He  is  not  of 

my  kind. 
He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me 

well. 
Nay,  let  him  go  —  and  quickly."  And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 

out  of  door. 


Forth  sprang   Gawain,  and   loosed 
.    him  from  his  bonds. 
And   flung  them  o'er  the  walls  :  and 

afterward. 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's 

"  Faith  ot  my  body,"  he  said,   "  and 

art  thou  not  — 
Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 

made 
Knight  of  his  table  ;  yea  and  he  that 

won 
The   circlet?  wherefore  hast  thou  so 

defamed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest, 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 

will  ? " 

And    Pelleas  answer'd,    "  O,  their 

wills  are  hers 
For  whom    I    won   the   circlet ;    and 

mine,  hers. 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mock- 
ery now. 
Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the 

woods ; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 

spite. 
And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring 

me  in. 
Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  her 

face  ; 
Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappi- 

ness." 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in 

scorn, 
"  Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will, 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  fighting  hands  of  mine —  Christ 

kill  me  then 
P>ut  I  will  slice  him  handless  by  the 

wrist. 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for 

him. 
Howl  as  he  may.     But   hold   me  for 

your  friend  : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing  :  here  I  pledge 

my  troth, 
Yea,  by  ihe  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
1  will   be  leal  to  thee  and  work   thy 

work. 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTA R RE. 


401 


And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  lo  thine 

hand. 
Lend  me  tliine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 

will  say 
That  I  have  slain  thee.     She  will  let 

me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and 

fall; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  coun- 
sels, then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy 

praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover, 

more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till 

she  long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 

and  warm, 
Dearer  than  freedom.    Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 
And  armor  :  let  me  go  :  be  comforted  : 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 

and  hope 
The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee 

news  of  gold." 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all 

his  arms. 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and 

took 
Gawain's,  and  said,  "  Betray  me  not, 

but  help  — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light- 

of-love  ?  " 

"  Ay,"   said  Gawain,  "  for  women 

be  so  light  " 
Then  bounded   forward  to  the  castle 

walls. 
And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his 

neck, 
And  winded  it.  and  that  so  mllsically^ 
That  all  the  old  echoes  liidden  in  the 

wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunt- 

ingtide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the 

tower  : 
"Avaunt,"  they  cried,  "  our  lady  loves 

thee  not  " 
Rut  Gawain  lifting  up  his  visor  said, 
"Gawain  am    I,   Gawain  of  Arthur's 

court, 


And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  yc 

hate  : 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.     Opea 

gate, 
And  1  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran. 
Her  damsels,    crying    lo    their   lady, 

"Lo! 
Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  —  he  that 

hath 
His  horse  and  armor  :  will  ye  let  him 

in  ? 
He  slew  him  !     Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 

court. 
Sir  Gawain  —  there   he   waits  below 

the  wall. 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say 

him  nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro' 

open  door 
Rode     Gawain,    whom    she    greeted 

courteously. 
"  Dead,  is  it  so  ? "  she  ask'd.     "  Ay, 

ay,"  said  he, 
"  And  oft  in  dying  cried   upon  your 

name." 
"  Pity  on  him,"  she  answer'd,  "  a  good 

'  knight. 
But  never  let   me   bide  one  hour  at 

peace." 
"  Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "  and  ye  be 

fair  enow : 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my 

troth. 
That  whom  ye  loathe  hin)  will  I  make 

you  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about 

the  l.iiid. 
Lost  in  a  doubt.  Pelle.is  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  iright  brought 

a  moon 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods 

and  ways. 

The   night  was  hot  :  he  c(»uld  not 

rest,  but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound 

his  horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.     Wide  open  were 

the  K^'e**. 
And  no  watch  kept ;  and  in  thro'  these 

he  past, 


402 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 


And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his 

own  heart 
Beating,  for   nothing   moved   but  his 

own  self, 
And  his  own  shadow.     Then  he  crost 

the  court, 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning  ;  and  up  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones 

mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and 

found, 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow 

moon, 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came   lightening  downward,    and   so 

spilt  itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavil- 
ions rose, 
Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt : 

in  one, 
Red  after  revel,  droned   her  lurdane 

knights 
Slumbering,    and   their   three  squires 

across  their  feet : 
In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 
Froz'n   by   sweet   sleep,   four   of  her 

damsels  lay: 
And   in  the  third,  the   circlet   of  the 

jousts 
.  Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and 

Ettarre. 

Back,  as   a  hand  that  pushes  thro' 

the  leaf 
To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he 

drew  : 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he 

fears 
To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or 

hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court 

again, 
Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he 

stood 
There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more, 

and  thought, 
"  I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 

they  lie." 

And  so  went  back  and  seeing  them 
yet  in  sleep 


Said,  "  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy 

sleep, 
Your   sleep   is  death,"  and  drew  the 

sword,  and  thought, 
"What!  slay  a  sleeping  knight?  the 

King  hath  bound 
And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood  "  ; 

again, 
"  Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so 

false." 
Then    turn'd,    and    so    return'd,   and 

groaning  laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked 

throats, 
'J'here  left  it,  and  them  sleeping ;  and 

she  lay. 
The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her 

brows. 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across 

her  throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on 

his  horse 
Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into 

the  moon. 
Then    crush'd    the    saddle    with    his 

thighs,  and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden'd  with  himself 

and  moan'd : 

"  Would  they  have  risen  against  me 

in  their  blood 
At   the   last  day?     I  might  have  an- 

swer'd  them 
Even  before  high  God.     O  towers  so 

strong, 
Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  I 

gaze 
The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to 

your  base 
Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  harlot 

roofs 
Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and 

thro'  within. 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart  —  hollow  as 

a  skull  ! 
Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your 

eyelet-holes. 
And  whirl  the    dust  of  harlots  round 

and  round 
In  dung  and  nettles  !  hiss,  snake  —  I 

saw  him  there  — 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTA R RE. 


405 


Lei  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell. 
Who  yells 

Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 
but  I  — 

I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call'd 
her  fool  ? 

Fool,  beast  —  he,  she,  or  I  ?  myself 
most  fool  ; 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  —  dis- 
graced, 

Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 

Love?  —  we  be  all  alike  :  only  the  king 

Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  O  noble 
vows  ! 

0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of 

brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no 

law  ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to 

my  shame? 

1  loathe    her,  as  I  loved  her  to    my 

shame. 
I  never  loved   her,   I   but  lusted  for 

her  — 
Away  —  " 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse, 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd  thro' 
the  night. 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on 

her  throat, 
Awakinc;  knew  the  sword,  and  turn'd 

herself 
To  Gawain  :  "  Liar,  for  thou  hast  not 

slain 
This  Pelleas  !  here  he  stood  and  might 

have  slain 
Me  and  thyself."    And  he  that  tells  the 

tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on 

earth. 
And  only  lover  ;  and  thro'  her  love  her 

life 
Wasted   and   pined,  desiring   him   in 

vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the 

night. 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the 

sod 
From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off 

the  hard, 


Rode  till  the  star  above  t"he  wakening 

sun. 
Beside  that  tower  where  Percivalc  was 

cowl'd. 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forelicad  of  the 

dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  into  his 

heart 
He  knew   not  whence  or  wherefore  : 

"  O  sweet  star, 
Pure   on   the   virgin  forehead  of  the 

dawn  " 
And  there   he  would  have  wept,  but 

felt  his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer:  thither  came  the  village 

girls 
And  lini;er'd  talking,  and  they  come 

no  more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fill'd   it 

from  the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons  :  hard  his  eyes  ;  harder  his 

heart 
Seem'd  ;  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 

that  he. 
Gasping,  "Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but 

here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  him- 
self down, 
And  gulf 'd  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep  ; 

so  lay. 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Gawain 

fired 
ThehallofNIerlin,  and  themomingstar 
Reel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 

and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some 

one  nigli. 
Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him, 

crying 
"  False  !    and    I   held    thee    pure  as 

Guinevere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 

replied. 
"  Am  I  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure? 
Or  art  th<ni  mazed  with  dreams?  or 

hciiig  one 
Of  our   free-spoken   Table  hast    not 

heard 
That  Lancelot  "  —  there   he   check'd 

himself  and  paused. 


404                                    PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

Then  fared   it   with  Sir  Pelleas  as 

Not   long  thereafter  from  the  city 

with  one 

gates 

Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the 

Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily. 

sword 

Warm   with   a  gracious   parting  from 

That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound 

the  Queen, 

again, 

Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 

And  pricks  it  deeper :  and  he  shrank 

And  marvelling  what  it  was :  on  whom 

and  wail'd, 

the  boy. 

"  Is  the  Queen  false?  "  and  Percivale 

Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 

was  mute. 

Borne,  clash'd  :  and  Lancelot,  saying, 

"  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 

"  What  name  hast  thou 

their  vows?" 

That  ridest   here   so   blindlv   and   so 

And   Percivale    made    answer  not    a 

hard?" 

word. 

"I  have  no  name,"   he  shouted,  "a 

"  Is  the  king  true  ?  "     "  The  king  !  " 

scourge  am  I, 

said  Percivale. 

To   lash   the  treasons  of  the   Table 

"Why  then    let    men  couple  at  once 

Round." 

with  wolves. 

"Yea,  but   thy   name?"       "I   have 

What !  art  thou  mad  ? " 

many  names,"  he  cried  : 

"  I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 

evil  fame, 

Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his 

And  like  a  poisonous  wind  I  pass  to 

horse 

blast 

And  fled  :  small  pity  upon  his  horse 

And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and 

had  he, 

the  Queen." 

•  Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 

"  First    over    me,"     said     Lancelot, 

A  crippk,  one  that   held  a  hand   for 

"  shalt  thou  pass" 

alms  — 

"  Fight  therefore,"    yell'd  the  other, 

Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old 

and  either  knight 

dwarf-elm 

Drew   back  a  space,    and  when  they 

That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast, 

closed,  at  once 

the  boy                                       "" 

The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  flounder- 

Paused not  but  overrode  him,  shout- 

ing flung 

ing  "  False, 

His   rider,   who  call'd   out   from   the 

And  false  with  Gawain  !  "  and  so  left 

dark  field, 

him  bruised 

"  Thou  art  false  as  Hell  :  slay  me  :  I 

And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and 

have  no  sword." 

wood 

Then   Lancelot,   "  Yea,    between    thy 

Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the 

lips —  and  sharp  ; 

gloom, 

But   here   will   I   disedge    it  by    thy 

That   follows  on   the   turning  of  the 

death." 

world. 

"  Slay  then,"  he  shriek'd,  "  my  will 

Darken'd     the     common    path  :     he 

is  to  be  slain." 

twitch'd  the  reins. 

And  Lancelot  with  his  heel,  upon  the 

And  inade  his  beast  that  better  knew 

fall'n. 

it,  swerve 

Rolling    his   eyes,    a  moment   stood, 

Now  off  it  and  now  on  ;  but  when  he 

then  spake  : 

saw 

"  Rise,  weakling  ;  I  am  Lancelot  ;  say 

High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Mer- 
lin built, 
Blackening    against    the    dead-green 

thy  say." 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war- 

stripes  of  even, 

horse  back 

"  Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan'd,  "  ye 

To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief 

build  too  high." 

while 

THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


405 


Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the 

dark  field, 
And  follow'd  to  the  city.     It  chanced 

that  both 
Brake  into  hall  together, worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 

Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lance- 
lot 
So  soon  retum'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 

him 
Who  had   not  greeted  her,  but   cast 

himself 
Down   on    a    bench,    hard-breathing. 

"  Have  ye  fought  ? " 
She    ask'd   of    Lancelot.      "  Ay,    my 

Queen,"  he  said. 
"  And   thou  hast  overthrown  him  ?  " 

"  Ay,  my  Queen." 
Then   she,    turning    to    Pelleas,    "  O 

young  knight, 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in 

thee  faird 
So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A  fall  from  rim  ?  "     Then,  for  he  an- 

swer'd  not, 
"  Or  hast   thou  other  griefs  ?     If  I, 

the  Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 

let  me  know." 
Rut  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail'd  ;  and  he,  hissing  "  I  have 

no  sword," 
Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark. 

The  Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover.he  on  her  ; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to 

be  : 
And  all  talkdied,  as  in  a  grove  all  song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of 

prey, 
Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the 

hall. 
And  Modred  thought,  "The  time  is 

hard  at  hand." 


THE   PASSING    OF    ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bcdi- 
vere. 
First  made  and   latest  left  of  all  the 
knights, 


Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 

a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  thoic 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  taces,  other 

minds. 

Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the 

west 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Ga- 

wain  kili'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 

blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  hi« 

ear 
Went   shrilling  "  Hollow,  hollow  all 

delight  ! 
Hail,  king  I  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 

away. 
Farewell  !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for 

thee. 
And  I  am   blown  along  a  wandering 

wind. 
And   hollow,    hollow,  hollow  all   de- 
light." 
And  fainter  onward,    like  wild  birds 

that  change 
Their  season   in  the  night  and  wail 

their  way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long 

wind  the  dream 
Shrill'd  :  but  in  going   mingled   with 

dim  cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the 

hills. 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night. 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child 

with  wail 
Pass  to  new  lords  ;    and   Arthur  woke 

and  call'd, 
"  Who  spake  ?      A   dream.      O  light 

upon  the  wind. 
Thine,  Gawain.  was  the  voice  —  are 

these  dim  cries 
Thine  ?  or  doth  all  that   haunts  the 

waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 


This  heard  the  bold  Sir   Bedivere 

and  spake  : 
"  O  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever 

will. 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  g!amour  of 

the  field  ; 


4o6                                 THE    PASSING 

OF  ARTHUR. 

But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

And   the  long  mountains  ended  in  tl 

cling 

coast 

To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 

Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 

Forever  :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 

The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 

Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

There  the  pursuer  could   pursue  no 

death 

more, 

Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man  ; 

And  he  that  fled    no   further  fly  the 

And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from 

king  ; 

him,  but  rise  — 

And   there,  that  day  when  the  great 

I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west, 

light  of  heaven 

And  with    him    many  of  thy  people 

Bum'd   at  his  lowest  in    the   rolling 

and  knights 

year. 

Once  thuie,  whom  thou  hast  loved. 

On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea 

but  grosser  grown 

they  closed. 

Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows 

Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a 

and  thee. 

fight 

Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for 

Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

the  king. 

west. 

Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  oM." 

A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and 

Then  spake  Khig  Arthur  to  Sir  Ee- 

sea  : 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

divere  : 

it,  drew 

"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 

Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 

Whereto  we    move,   than    when  we 

was  cold 

strove  in  youth. 

With  formless  fear  ;   and  ev'n  on  Ar- 

And thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Ro- 

thur fell 

man  wall, 

Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 

And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.     Ill 

fought. 

doom  is  mine 

For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in 

To  war   against   my   people  and  my 

the  mist, 

knights. 

And  friend  slew  friend  not   knowing 

The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights 

whom  he  slew  ; 

himself. 

And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden 

And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 

youth. 

once,  the  stroke 

And  some  beheld   the   faces   of  old 

That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 

ghosts 

to  me. 

Look  in  upon  the  battle  ;    and  in  the 

Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 

mist 

Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since 

Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 

I  saw 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in 

One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 

single  fights. 

Hath    folded    in    the  passes   of  the 

And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 

world." 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn. 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his 

Shield-breakings,    and   the    clash   of 

host  by  night, 

brands,  the  crash 

And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league 

Of  battleaxes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and 

by  league, 

shrieks 

Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyon- 

After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling 

esse  — 

down 

A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 

Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw 

By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 

the  mist  ; 

Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 

dwelt, 

knights, 

THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


¥n 


Oaths,    insult,    filth,    and    monstrous 

blasphemies. 
Sweat,  wriiiiings,  anguish,  laboring  of 

the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 

light. 
Moans  ut  ;he  dyuig,  and  voices  of  the 

dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after 

wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro' 

death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 

shore, 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 

seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolo- 
rous day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 

came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North, 

and  blew 
The    mist   aside,  and  with  that  wind 

the  tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across 

the  lield 
Of  battle  :    but  no  man   was  moving 

there  : 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 
Nor  yet   of  heathen  ;   only  the   wan 

wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,    and  up 

and  down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets,  of  the 

fallen. 
And    shiver'd   brands    that  once  had 

fought  with  Rome, 
And  rolling  faraloiig  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of   old    and   days 

to  be. 

Then    spake    King   Arthur   to    Sir 

P.edivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 

long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the 

King: 

"  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 
shakes  the  world, 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 
we  move, 


And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for 

me  ?  — 
O  Bedivcre,  for  on  my  heart  hath  faJI'o 
Confusion,    till    1    know   not   %«hat   I 

am, 
Nor  whence  I  am,    nor  whether  (  b« 

king. 
Behold,   1  seem  but  king  among  the 

dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivcre  : 

"My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and   so  the   dead 

have  kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  tliee  as  king. 
Yet  still  thy  lite  is  whole,  and  still  I  live 
Who  love  thee;  but  who  hates  thee, 

he  that  brought 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder 

stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 

house." 

Then  spake  the  King:  "  My  house 

hath  been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my 

house 
Who  ha;h  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 

with  me. 
My  house  ate  rather  they  who  sware 

my  vows, 
Yea,   even    while   they    brake    them, 

own'd   me   king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark 

hour, 
When  ail  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath 

fail'd. 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me 

tor  king 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry : 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shak 

thou  see 
Yet,  ere  I  pass."    And  uttering  this 

the  king 
Made  at  the  man  :  then  Modred  smote 

his  liege 
Hard   on    that    helm   which  many   a 

heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin;  while  Arthur  at  one 

blow, 
Striking  the  laststrokewith  Kxcalihur. 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he 

fell. 


4o8 


THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 

roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter 

sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man   by 

man, 
Had   fall'n   in    Lyonesse   about   their 

lord. 
King    Arthur.       Then,    because    his 

wound  was  deep. 
The  bold  iiir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
And   bore  him   to  a  chapel  nigh  the 

field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 

land  : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 

Then   spake   King    Arthur   to    Sir 

Bedivere  : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The    goodliest   fellowship  of   famous 

knights 
Whereof    this     world     holds    record. 

Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep—  the   men   I    loved.      I 

think  that  we 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds. 
Walking   about  the  gardens  and    the 

halls 
Of  Canielot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more ;  but  let  what  will 

be,  be. 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That   without   help  I    cannot  last  till 

morn. 
Thou  tiierefore  take  my  brand  Excali- 

bur. 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  reraem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 

uerful. 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd 

across 


And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch   what   thou  seest   and    lightly 

bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

"  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 
thus. 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the 
helm  — 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded 
man ; 

Yet  1  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 

Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 

rock, 
Came   on   the   shining  levels   of  the 

lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon. 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 
sparks, 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 
stood. 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind. 

In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it 
seem'd 


THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


4«) 


Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  manv-knottedwaterriags, 
That  whistled  stift"  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then   spake   King   Arthur   to    Sir 

Bedivere : 
"  Hast   tliou    perform 'd  my    mission 

which  I  gave  ? 
What  is   it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what 

hast  heard? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  I   heard  the   ripple  washing  in  the 

reeds, 
And  the  wild  waterlappingon  the  crag. " 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and 

thy  name, 
Not  rendering  trueanswer.  asbeseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight  : 
For  surer  sign    had  follow'd,   either 

hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  sliamet'ul  thing  tor  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  i   charge  thee,   quickly  go 

again, 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,   fix'd  in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 

he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

"And   if  indeed   I  cast  the   brand 

away, 
Surely  a   precious  thing,  one  worthy 

note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the 

earth. 
Which  miiiht  have  pleased  the   eyes 

of  many  men. 


What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done .' 
What  harm,  undone  ?     Deep  harm  to 

disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  li  a  k.mg  de- 
mand 
An  act  unprofiuble,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  nut  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should   be   to   aticrtmie,   but  empty 

breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?   But  were  this 

kept, 
Stored    in    some    treasure  -  house   of 

migluy  knigs, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms. 
Saying,  *  King  Arthur's  swond,  Lxcali- 

bur. 
Wrought  by  tlie  lonelv  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in 

the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  si>ea>(  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost.'" 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 

conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
lieavily  : 
"Wliat  is  it' thou  hast  seen?  or  what 
hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

"  I   heard   the  water  lapping  on  the 
crag. 

And  the   long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds.  •'^ 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 
in  wrath  : 

"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue. 

Unknightly,  traitor  hearted  !     Woe  ■ 
me  ! 

Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 


4IO 


THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  how'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
For  thou,   the  latest -left  of  all  my 

kuights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either  Irom  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I   will   arise   and  slay  thee  with   my 
hands. ' ' 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 

ran. 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

.the  sword, 
And  strongly   wheel'd  and   threw  it. 

The  great  brand 
Made  lightnmgs  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon. 
And  flashing  round   and  round,  and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern 

morn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 

sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur ; 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 

arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 

thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  1  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 

or  seen  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 


"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  ^or  I  never 

saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 

die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 

men, 
'So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands    I   flung  him, 

wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an 

arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere." 

And    answer    made    King  Arthur, 

breathing  hard  : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that 

I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 

my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 

die." 

So  saying,    from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 

eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 
tombs. 

But,   as   he    vvalk'd.   King    Arthur 

panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 

bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.   So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear 

"  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 


THE    PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


4«« 


Out  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  rid^e, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 

as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd    his   harness   in  the  icy 

caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake. 
And   the  long   glories   of  the   winter 

moon. 

Then   saw  they  how  there   hove  a 

dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 

stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they 

were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense   with 

stately  forms, 
Black  -  stoled,  black  -  hooded,   like   a 

dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  : 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  .Arthur,  "  Place  me 
in  the  barge  "  ; 
So  to   the   barge  they  came.     There 

those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and   took  the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud, 


And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 

brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  ;  for   all  his 

face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and   like  the  withcr'd 

moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  spring- 
ing east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisscsdash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising 

sun 
High   from   the   dais  -  throne  —  were 

parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points   and   hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a   shatter'd   column   lay    the 

King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 

in  rest. 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment. 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 

charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such   times  have  been  not  since  the 

light  that  led 
The  holy  Klders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole    Round   Table  is 

dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 

world  ; 
.And  I,  the  last,po  forth  companionles*. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 

the  years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 


412                               THE   PASSING 

OF  ARTHUR. 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

the  barge  : 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

*'  The   old   order    changeth,    yielding 

the  flood 

place  to  new, 

With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Bedivere 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

the  world. 

Look'd  one  black  dot  againstthe  verge 

Comfort  thyself:   what  comfort  is  in 

of  dawn. 

me? 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 

At  length  he  groan'd,  and  turning 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  ! 

slowly  clomb 

but  thou, 

The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag ; 

If  thou   shouldst   never  see   my  face 

Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving 

again, 

yet,  and  cried, 

Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things   are 

"He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead, 

wrought  by  prayer 

And    after    healing    of   his    grievous 

Than  this  world  dreams  of     Where- 

wound 

fore,  let  thy  voice 

He  comes  again  ;  but  —  if  he  come  no 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

more  — 

day. 

0  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 

boat. 

or  goats 

Who  shriek'd  and   wail'd,  the   three 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within   the 

whereat  we  gazed 

brain, 

On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 

living  light, 

of  prayer 

They   stood   before   his  throne  in  si- 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 

lence,  friends 

call  them  friend  ? 

Of  Arthur,  who  should   help  him  at 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

his  need?" 

way 
Bound  bv  gold  chains  about  the  feet 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there 

of  God. 

came,  but  faint 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long 

As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 

way 

Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 

Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 

(For  all    my  mind  is  clouded   with  a 

voice 

doubt)  — 

Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about. 

snow, 

and  clomb 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;   but  it 

E'en  to  the  highest  he  could   climb, 

lies 

and  saw. 

Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  or- 

Straining his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of 

chard-lawns 

hand. 

And    bowery   hollows    crown'd    with 

Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 

sumrner  sea, 

the  king. 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the 

wound." 

deep 

Somewhere   far  off,  pass   on  and  on, 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 

and  go 

and  sail 

From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 

And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 

breasted  swan 

year. 

NORTHERX  FARMER. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


NORTHERN    FARMER. 


NEW    STYLE. 


Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as 

they  canters  awaay? 
Proputty,  pruputty,  proputty — that's 

what  I  'ears  'em  saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,    proputty — Sam, 

thou  's  an  ass  tor  thy  paains : 
Theev  's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs 

nor  in  all  thy  braains. 


II. 
Woa  —  theer  's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha, 

Sam  :  yon  's  parson's  'ouse  — 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be 

eather  a  man  or  a  mouse  .* 
Time  to  think  on  it  tlien  ;  tor  thou  '11 

be  twenty  to  weeak.* 
Proputty,    proputty  —  woa   then   woa 
—  let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 


Mean'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean 

a-talkin'  o'  thee  ; 
Thou  's  been  t.Tlkin'  to  muther,  an'  she 

bean  a  tellin'  it  me. 
Thou  '11  not  marry  for  munny  —  thou 's 

sweet  upo'  parson's  lass  — 
Noii  —  thou '11    marry   for  luvv  —  an* 

we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 


Seea'd  her  to-daay  gori  by  —  Saiint's- 

daay  —  they    was    ringing    the 

bells. 
She  's  a  beauty  thou  thinks  — an'  soa 

is  scoors  o'  gel  Is. 
Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all  —  wot 's  a 

beauty  ?  —  the  flower  as  blaws. 
But    proputty,     proputty    sticks,    an' 

proputty,  proputty  graws. 

•  This  week. 


Do'ant    be    stunt :  *    taake    time :    I 

knaws  what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  1  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen 

when  1  wur  a  lad  } 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often 

'as  towd  ma  this  : 
"Doant  thou   marry   for  muimy,  but 

goii  wheer  munny  is  I  " 


VI. 


An' 


I  went  wheer  munny  war :  an' 

thy  mother  coom  to  'and, 
Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nice- 

tish  bit  o'  land. 
Maaybe  she   warn't   a   beauty:  —  I 

niver  giv  it  a  thowt  — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an' 

kiss  as  a  lass  as  'ant  iiowt.' 


Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  wcant 

'a  nowt  when  'e's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  puvness,   lad,  or  summut, 

and  addle  t  her  bread  : 
Why  ?  fur   'e's   nobbut  a   curate,  an' 

weiint  nivir  git  naw  'igher  : 
An'   'e   maiide   the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on 

afoor  'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 

VIII. 

An  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi' 

lots  o'  'Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'anl 

got  shut  on  'em  yet 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi* 

noHn  to  lend  'im  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  farweltcr'd  X  vowe  :  fur, 
Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 

IX. 

Luvv?  what's  luvv?    thou  can   luvv 
thy  lass  an'  'cr  munny  too, 

•  Obstinate. 

I  <  )r  foir-weltcrM.  —  «ald  of  •  sheep  lying 
on  iu  t)ack  in  the  furrow. 


414                                                  THE    VICTIM. 

Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they  've 

An'  I'll  run  up  to  the  brig,  an'  that 

good  right  to  do. 

thou  '11  hve  to  see  : 

Could'n  I  kivv  thy  muther  by  cause 

And  if  thou  marries  a  good   un  I  '11 

o'  'er  nninny  laa'id  by  ? 

leave  the  land  to  thee. 

Naay  — fur  1    luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight 

' 

moor  fur  it :  reason  why. 

XV. 

Thim  's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby 

X. 

_  I  means  to  stick  ; 

Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to 

But   if  thou    marries   a  bad  un,   I  '11 

marry  the  lass, 

leave  the  land  to  Dick.  — 

Cooms  of  a  gentleman  burn  :  an'  we 

Coom     oop,     proputty,     proputty  — 
that 's  what  I  'ears  'im  saay  — 

boath  on  us  thinks  tlia  an  ass. 

Woa  then,  proputty,  wiliha?  — an  ass 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  -  '  canter 

as  near  as  mays  novvt  *  — 

an'  canter  awaay. 

Woa   then,   wiltha?    dangtha  !  —  the 

bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.  t 

XI. 

THE   VICTIM. 

Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead, 

lad,  out  o'  the  fence  1 

I. 

Gentleman   burn  !  what 's   gentleman 

A  PLAGUE  iTpon  the  people  fell, 

burn?  is  it  shillins  an'  pence? 

A  famine  after  laid  them  low. 

Proputty,    proputty 's   ivrything    'ere, 

Then  tliorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire. 

an',  Sammy,  1  'm  blest 

For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe  ; 

If  it  isn't  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur 

So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried 

them  as  'as  it  's  the  best. 

"  The  Gods  are  moved  against  the 
land." 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 

xn. 

Tis'n  them   as   'as  munny  as  breaks 

To  Thor  and  Odm  lifted  a  hand  : 

into  'ouses  an'  steals, 

"  Help  us  from  famine 

Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an' 

And  plague  and  strife  ! 

taakes  their  regular  meals. 

What  would  you  have  of  us? 

Noa,   but  it's   them  as  niver   knaws 

Human  life? 

wheer  a  meal  's  to  be  'ad. 

Were  it  our  nearest,                   >^ 
Were  it  our  dearest, 

Taake  my  word  for  it,    Sammy,    the 

poor  in  a  loomp  is  bad. 

(Answer,  O  answer) 

XIII. 

We  give  you  his  life." 

Them  or  thir  fevthers,  tha  sees,  mun 

II. 

'a  bean  a  I'aazy  lot. 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin' 

But  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  burn'd, 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 

whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther    'ad    ammost    nowt ;    least- 

waays  'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an' 

And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood; 

And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way. 
Or  down  in  a  furrow  scathed  with 

'e  died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 

flame ; 

And  ever    and    aye    the    Priesthood 

XIV. 

moan'd 

Loook   thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby 

Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer 

beck  comes  out  by  the  'ill ! 

came  : 

Feyther  run  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs 

"The  King  is  happy 

up  to  the  mill  ; 

In  child  and  wife  ; 

•  Makes  notliinpf. 

Take  you  his  dearest. 

\  The  flics  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 

Give  us  a  life." 

THE   HIGHER   PANTHEISM. 


4«5 


1  he  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 
The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild  ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 

She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 
His  beauty  still  with  his  years  in- 
creased, 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold. 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
"  The  Gods  have  answer'd  : 
We  give  them  the  boy." 


The  King  retum'd  from  out  the  wild. 

He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand  ; 
The  mother  said,  "  They  have  taken 
the  child 
To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land  : 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased. 
And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  lea  : 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased. 
So  I  pray  you  teJl  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son, 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  he  your  dearest? 
Or  I,  the  wife?  " 


The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow. 
He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee  : 
"O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now  ? 
For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for 
me." 
The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear  ; 
"The  Gods,"  he  said,  "would  have 
chosen  well  ; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear. 
And   which   the   dearest    I   cannot 
tell!" 
But  the  Priest  was  happy, 
His  victim  won  : 
"  We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son  !  " 


The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 
The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow. 

To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 
"  Me,  not  my  darling,  no  1  " 


He   caught  her  away  with  a  sudden 
cry; 
Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife. 
And  shrieking  "/  am  his  dearest,  I  — 
/  am  his  dearest  !"   rush'd  on  lh« 
knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
"  O,  Fatlier  Odin. 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest? 
Who  was  his  dearest  ? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd  ; 
We  give  them  the  wife  1  " 


WAGES. 

Glorv  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory 

of  song. 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost 
on  an  endless  sea  — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  finht,  to  struggle, 
to  right  tiie  wrong  — 
Nay.  but  sl»e  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no 
lover  of  glory  she  : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and 

still  to  be. 
The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  if  the  wages 
of  Virtue  be  dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for 
the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  iljc  blest,  no 
quiet  seats  of  the  just. 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask 
in  a  sunjmer  sky  : 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and 
not  to  die. 


THE   HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas, 
the  hills  and  the  plain*  — ■ 

Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of 
Him  A'ho  reigns? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He?  iho'  He  be  no! 

that  wliich  He  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  witile  ihey  last,  and 

do  we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 


iGhuy  about  -Jhec,  »niibimt  iSbes  i  mcfl 

-Ciitu.  fuiftlkist  thv  tlouTO, 
Iv'ur.iui-    -Iin.    brukBri'giaaitnfe,  anfl  a 

bpKu:  •       -•  ,.„£ 

For  if-  iitw  ihi:  tfautt&s- 


T'vff  all  wt   ifftvt  iKJwer  to  set  J*  a 
atraiglit  staff  i*em  in  a  jatml  ; 


U  -I,..--..  .,.,.  'iitt  wf-flttotanmw;;  — 

■-,  .«rtJ!l  ai»<l  M,  i«i  flpy 

TJTiwt  vtiw  ««,  «»nt  ;a»fi  s£U,  anil^  iiu 

all. 


]Lff>C3RiEnnnu«. 


'^iKJWf  ins,  -finmil 


Td)  aomi  atnd  ponofler  dlniK  tdbnee 


l4ft  %  flttte  Ti^dbta-  «bsa>  te  hdUl 


Jam, 
lOkiQimH^    «(iine   VDvall^  »«n#tt    and 

fwwer,  !fb^«alJrttl, 


All 

Mr, 

Af.' 


tmute  &»3n»  wnAun 


Ihs  IbsEdbefl  SoMD' 


"j&twfl)  ini  tflw  flii^:!  ffw  tflwiisK 


1^    i*WCi 


,f»\\%  nj  a 


:ii»'1 


•*TivviaeK 


mbtai  mt'. 


mau 


4i8 


LUCRETIUS. 


Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.     Rather,  O  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 

forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial 

heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'  the 

thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  ligiu  is  large,  and  lambs 

are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's   udder,  and  the 

bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze 

of  flowers  : 
Which   things    appear    the    work   of 

mighty  Gods. 

"  The  Gods  !  and  if  I  go  viy  work 

is  left 
Unfinish'd  —  if\  go.    The  Gods,  who 

haunt 
The    lucid    interspace   of  world  and 

world. 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves 

a  wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of 

snow. 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 

mar 
Their  sacred   everlasting  calm !    and 

such. 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm. 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may 

gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.     The   Gods, 

the  Gods  ! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the 

Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 
Not  follow  the  great  law  ?    My  mas- 
ter held 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  be- 
lieve. 
I  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely   to    lead    my  Memmius   in    a 

train 
Of   flowery    clauses    onward    to    the 

proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless. 

Meant?  I  meant? 


I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant :   my 

mind 
Stumbles,   and  all    my  faculties    are 
lamed. 

"  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods, 

the  Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion  —  what  you  will  — 
Has  mounted  yonder  ;  since  he  never 

sware. 
Except    his  wrath  were  wreak'd  on 

wretched  man. 
That  he  would  only  shine  among  the 

dead 
Hereafter;  tales!  forneveryet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 
Moan  round  the  spit  —  nor  knows  he 

what  he  sees ; 
King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and 

girt 
With  song  and   flame  and  fragrance, 

slowly  lifts 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled 

stairs 
That  climb   into   the   windy  halls  of 

heaven  : 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new- 
born, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain  ; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the 

last ; 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who   mourn  a 

friend  in  vain, 
Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no 

more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  my- 
self. 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says. 
That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit 

the  post 
Allotted  by  the  Gods  :    but  he  that 

holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need 

he  care 
Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at 

once, 
Being   troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight, 

and  sink 


LUCRETIUS. 


4«9 


Past  earthquake  —  ay,  and  gout  and 
stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death* 
in-life. 

And  wretched  age  —  and  worst  disease 
of  all. 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses. 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeaka- 
ble. 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every 
dish. 

The  phantom  husks  of  something  foul- 
ly done. 

And  fleeting  thro'  the  boundless  uni- 
verse, 

Andblastingthelongquiet  of  my  breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity  ? 

"  How  should  the  mind,   except  it 
loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner  and  now  thicker,  like  the 

Hakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 
Of  multitude,  as   crowds  that  in  an 

hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their 

rags  and  they, 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the 
land? 

"  Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  off  me 

again, 
Seeing   with   how  great   ease  Nature 

can  smile. 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of 

storm. 
At  random  ravage  ?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy 

slough. 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'era  mountain,  —  ay,  and 

within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of 

men  ? 

"  But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden 
snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at  —  more  to  laugli  at  in  my- 
self— 


For  look  !  what  is  it?  there?  yon  ar- 
butus 

Totters  ;  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 

Strikes  througli  the  wood,  sets  ail  the 
tops  quivering  — 

The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph 
and  Faun  ; 

And  here  an  Oread  —  how  the  sun  de- 
lights 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 
sides. 

And  rosy  knees  and  supple  rounded- 
ness. 

And  budded  bosom-peaks  —  who  this 
way  runs 

Before  the  rest  —  A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see. 

Follows  :  but  him  1  proved  inipo>sibie; 

Twy-natured  is  no  nature  :  yet  he 
draws 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 

Beastlier  than  anv  phantom  of  his  kind 

That  ever  butted  nis  rough  brother- 
brute 

For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 

I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him  ;  and 
she 

Loathes  him  as  well  ;  such  a  precipi- 
tate heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's 
ankle-wing. 

Whirls  her  to  me  :  but  will  she  fling 
herself, 

Shameless  uj^n  me  ?  Catch  her,  goat- 
fi)f>t  :  nay. 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wil- 
derness, 

And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide  I 
do  I  wish  — 

What  ?  —  that  the  bush  were  leafless  ? 
or  to  whcim 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre?  O  y« 
Gods, 

I  know  vou  careles«s  yet.  behold,  to  you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I 
call  — 

I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  your- 
selves — 

No  lewdness, narrowing  envy,  monkey- 
spite. 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice, 
none : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  planeorpin* 

With  neighbors  laid  alons  the  grass, 
to  take 


420 


LUCRETIUS. 


Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly^ 
warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet,  Epicurean  lite. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster 
lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my 
will, 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his  ;  and 
spoils 

My  bliss  in  being;  and  it  was  not 
great ; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in 
rhythm. 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 

To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often 
grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 

Crown'd  with  a  flower  'or  two,  and 
there  an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems 
to  fade. 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  my- 
self. 

Not  manlike  end  myself  ?  — our  privi- 
lege— 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it?  And 
what  man. 

What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in 
triumph  thus? 

Not  I  ;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name 
with  her 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless 
doom  of  kings. 

When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in 
her  veins. 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Colla- 
tine 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guilt- 
less air. 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her 
heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Common- 
wealth, which  breaks 

As  I  am  breaking  now  ! 

"  And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of 

all, 
Great   Nature,  take,   and  forcing    far 

apart 


Those    blnid    beginnings    that   have 

made  me  man 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
I'hrough  all  her  cycles  — into  man  once 

more, 
Or  beast   or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent 

flower : 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one 

day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,  —  and  that  hour 

perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall   seem  no  more  a  something  to 

himself, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 

and  fanes. 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within 

the  grave, 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall 

pass. 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and 

void. 
Into   the   unseen    forever,  —  till   that 

hour. 
My  golden  work   in  which    I   told  a 

truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake, 

and  plucks 
The   mortal  soul  from   out  immortal 

hell. 
Shall  stand  :  ay,  surely  :  then  it  fails 

at  last 
And  perishes  as  I  must ;  for  O  Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 
Yearn 'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wise, 
Who   fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou 

art 
Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 

pain, 
Howbeit  1  know  thou  surely  must  be 

mine 
Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 
1  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so 

they  win  — 
Thus  — thus:   the  soul  flies  out  and 

dies  in  the  air." 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into 
his  side  : 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon 

herself 
As    having    fail'd    in    duty    to    him, 

shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back, 

fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,   kiss'd   him,  wail'd  :    he  an- 

swer'd,  "  Care  not  thou  ! 
Thy  duty  ?     What  is  duty  ?     Fare  thee 

well  !  " 


THE   GOLDEN   SUPPER. 

[This  poem  is  founded  upon  a  story  in 
Boccaccio. 

K  young  lover,  Julian,  whose  cousin  and 
foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to 
his  friend  and  rival,  Lionel,  endeavors  to 
narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her, 
and  the  strange  sequel  of  it.  He  speaks  of 
Slaving  been  haunted  in  delirium  b^  visions 
and  the  sound  of  bells,  sometimes  tollini;  for 
a  funeral,  and  at  last  ringinij  for  a  mar- 
riage ;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as 
he  approaches  the  Event,  and  a  witness  to 
it  completes  the  tale.] 

He  flies    the    event:    he  leaves  the 

event  to  me  : 
Poor  Julian  —  how   he  rush'd  away  : 

the  bells. 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear 

and  heart  — 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you 

saw. 
As  who  should  say  "continue."    Well, 

he  had 
One  golden  hour  —  of  triumph  shall  I 

say? 
Solace   at   least  —  before  he   left   his 

home. 

Would  you  had   seen  him  in  that 
hour  of  his  ! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically  — 
Kestrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close 
—  but  now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady's  mar- 
riage-bells. 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  ask'd  :  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were   wedded,  and  our  Julian  came 
again 


Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  th« 

pines. 
But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 

and  the  Hay, 
The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as 

/Etna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology  :  he  would 

go. 
Would  leave  the  land  forever,  and  had 

gone 
Surely,  but  for  a  whisper  *'  Go  not 

yet," 
Some    warning,    and    divinely  as    it 

seem'd 
By  that  which  foUow'd  —  but  of  this 

I  deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  —  the 

event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after 

life. 
And  partly  made  them  —  tho'  he  knew 

it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay'd  and  would  not 

look  at  her  — 
No  not   for  months:   but,  when   the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay. 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 

and  said. 
Would  you  could  toll  mc  out  of  life, 

but  found  — 
All  softly  as  his  mother  broke   it  to 

him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear. 
For  that   low   knell  tolling  "his  lady 

dead  — 
Dead  —  and  had  lain  three  days  with- 
out a  pulse  : 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 

her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's 

land 
They  never  nai!  a  dumb  head  up  in 

elm). 
Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 

heaven. 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 

kin. 

What  did  he  then?  not  die;  he  : 
here  and  hale  — 
Not   plunge    headforemost   from   the 
mountain  there. 


422 


THE   GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap  : 

not  he : 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 

now, 
Thought  that  he  knew  it,     "  This,  I 

stay'd  for  this  : 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will   I  go  down  into  the 

grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love. 
And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.     She  is  his 

no  more  : 
The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose   and  went,  and  entering  the 

dim  vault. 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  be- 
held 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will 

be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went 

again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her 

face; 
Herbreast  asin  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which  the 

moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  aud  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of 

the  vault. 

"  It  was  my  wish,"  he  said,  "to  pass, 

to  sleep, 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her  — till  the  great 

day 
Peal'd   on  us  with  that  music  which 

rights  all. 
And  raised  us  hand  in  hand."    And 

kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once 

was  man. 
Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 

hearts. 
Hearts    that   had    beat  with   such  a 

love  as  mine  — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 

her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss'd   her   more  than  once,   till 

helpless  death 


And  silence  made  him  bold  —  nay,  but 

I  wrong  him, 
He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in 

death  ; 
But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her 

heart, 
"  O,  you   warm   heart,"  he   moan'd, 

"not  even  death 
Can  chill    you   all   at  once "  :    then 

starting,  thought 
His  dreams  had  come  again.     "Do  I 

wake  or  sleep  ? 
Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal  once  more?"      It  beat  —  the 

heart  —  it  beat: 
Faint  —  but  it  beat :  at  which  his  own 

began 
To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that 

it  drown'd 
The   feebler    motion  underneath  his 

hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  sat-» 

isfied. 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre, 
And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the 

cloak 
He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 

now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burden  in  his  arms, 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she 
was  born. 

There  the    good  mother's    kindly 

ministering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life :  she  rais'd  an  eye 

that  ask'd 
"Where?"  till  the  things  familiar  to 

her  youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer  :  then  she 

spoke 
"Here!    and  how  came    I   here?" 

and  learning  it 
(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I 

'  think) 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"Ay,    but   you   know  that  you   must 

give  me  back  : 
Send  !  bid   him  come  "  ;    but  Lionel 

was  away  — 
Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish'd,  none 

knew  where. 


THE    GOLDES  SUFFER. 


4^3 


'■  He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "and 
goes  "  —  a  wail 

That  seeming  something,  yet  w-as  noth- 
ing, born 
I        Not  from   belie\-ing  mind,  but  siM- 
I  ter'd  nerve, 

I         Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  ov\-n  reproof 

At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 

Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had 
retum'd, 

"  O  yes,   and  you,"  she   said,   "  and 
none  but  you. 

For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 
again. 

And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell 
him  of  it. 

And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 
returns." 

"  Suy  then  a  little,"  answer'd  Julian, 
"  here. 

And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 
yourself; 

And  1  will  do  your  wilL     I  may  not 
stay, 

Xo,  not  an  hour ;  but  send  me  notice 
of  him 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  re- 
turn. 

And  I  will  make  a  solemn  offering  of 
you 

To  him  you  love."  And  faintly  she  re- 
plied, 

"And  I  will  do  y^rur  will,  and  none 
shall  know." 

Not  know  ?  with  such  a  secret  to  be 

known. 
But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 

them  both. 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 

of  both  : 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any  way. 
And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  soli- 

tar^• : 
And  then  he  rode  away  :  but  after  this. 
An  hour  or  two.  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her.  and  that  day  a  boy  was  bom. 
Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  a«-ay. 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh. 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :  myself 

was  then 
Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest 

an  hour ; 


And  sitting  down  to  such  a  bue  re- 
past. 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I   heard    a  groaning    overhead,  and 

dimb'd 
The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everYtbing 

was  •.  i'.ct 
And  ina  . 
Found,  a- 
Ravin^o' 

ing  hearo. 

A  dismal  hn-tel  'ri  a  'i:-Tr!:i!  'iTfl. 
Aflat  ma'  .:  '   ' 

But  there:  i 

Sprang  u.     .  p 

us  yet. 
For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary 

coast. 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 

piece 
I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  hi*  life  : 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady 

made 
Dwelt  in  his  &ncy  :  did  be  know  her 

worth, 
Her  beauty  even?  should  he  not  be 

Uught, 
Ev'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  ujjon 

it. 
The  value  of  that  jewel   he  had  to 

guard? 

Suddenly  came  her  ix>tice  and  we 
passed, 
I  with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind. 

the  soul : 
That  makes  the   sequel  pure  ;    tho' 

some  of  us 
Bej;innins  at  the  sequel  know  no  more 
Not  such  am  I  :  and  yet  1  say,  the  bir  1 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however 

sweet. 
But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answer* 

him  — 
What  matter  ?  there  are  other*  in  the 

wood. 
Yet  when    I  saw  her  (and  I  thooght 

him  crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craxines*  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of 

hers  — 


424 


THE   GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


O,  such  dark  ej'es  !  and  not  her  eyes 

alone, 
But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch'd 

on  earth, 
For  such  a  crazmess  as  Julian's  seem'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet   us,  her  young  hero   in  her 

arms  ! 
"  Kiss  him,"  she  said.    "  You  gave  me 

life  again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His  other  father  you  !     Kiss  him,  and 

then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be   Julian 

too." 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart ! 

his  own 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his  face,  I  knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him 

there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to 

And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying 
him 

By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne 
the  dead. 

To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with 
him 

Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 

And  then  to  friends  —  they  were  not 
many  —  who  lived 

Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land  of 
his. 

And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  fare- 
wells. 

And  Julian  made  a  solemn  feast :  I 

never 
Sat  at  a  costlier  ;  for  all  round  his  hall 
From  column  on   to  column,  as  in  a 

wnod. 
Not    such    as    here  —  an    equatorial 

one, 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom'd  ; 

and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,   and  ancient    miracles  of 

Art, 
Chahce  and  salver,  wines  that,  Heaven 

knows  when. 
Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten 

sun. 


And  kept  it  thro'  a  hundred  j'ears  of 

gloom. 
Yet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby  — 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever ' 

in  gold  — 
Others  of  glass  as  costly  —  some  with 

gems 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will. 
And  trebling  all  the  rest   in  value — ■ 

Ah  heavens ! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all?  — suffice  to 

say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his. 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest :  and 

they,  the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at    some    strange   light  in 

Julian's  eyes 
(I  told  you  that  he   had  his  golden 

hour). 
And    such   a  feast,     ill-suited    as   it 

seem'd 
To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and 

his. 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a  land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev'n 

than  rich. 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 

hall 
Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping 

down. 
Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor. 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 

frame. 
And    just   above  the  parting  was   a 

lamp  : 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 

night 
Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with 

a  smile. 

Well  then  —  our  solemn  feast  —  we 

ate  and  drank. 
And  might  —  the  wmes  being  of  such 

nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes, 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about 

it  all  :_ 
What  was  it  ?  for  our  lover   seldom 

spoke, 


THE   GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


4-'5 


Scirce   touch'd    the  meats  ;   but  ever 

and  anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his 

use  ; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end, 

he  said  : 

"  There  is  a  custom  in  the   Orient, 
friends  — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —  when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him, 

he  brings 
And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  ac- 
counts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 
This  custom  —  " 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The  guests  broke  in  upon  him   with 

meeting  hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet  — "  Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a 
feast?  " 

The  lover  answer'd,  "  There  is  more 

than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.     Laud  me 

not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the 

close. 
This  custom   steps  yet  further  when 

the  guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost, 
tor  after  he  has  shown  him  gems  or 

gold, 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  m  rich 

guise 
That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as 

these. 
The    beauty  that    is  dearest    to  his 

heart  — 
'  O  my   heart's  lord,   would  I   could 

show  you,'  he  says, 
'  Ev'n  my  heart  too.'     And  I  propose 

to-night 
To  show  you  what   is  dearest  to  my 

heart. 
And  my  heart  too. 

"  But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  *  man,  nor  many  years  ago  ; 


He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one   who 

loved 
His  master  more  than  all  on  earth  be* 

side. 
He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 

death. 
His  master  would  not  wa>t  until  he 

died, 
But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from 

the  door, 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to 

die. 
I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 
Who  found  the   dying   servant,  took 

him  home. 
And  fed  and  chcrish'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 
I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  mas- 
ter claim 
His  ser\'ice,  whom  does  it  belong  to  ? 

him 
Who    thrust   him  out,   or  him    who 

saved  his  life  ?  " 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 

the  guests, 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 

length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law 

would  hold. 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 

phrase. 
Andhe beginning  languidly  —  his  loss 
Weigh'd  on  him  yet  —  but  wanning  as 

he  went, 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it 

by, 
Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived. 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  Rralcfulne«v*, 
The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was 

due 
All  to  the  saver  —  adding, with  a  smile. 
The  first  for  many  weeks— a  semi  smile 
As  at   a  strong  conclusion  —  "  body 

and  soul 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 

will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  tc  m^ 
To  brine  Camilla  down  before  lhcn» 
all 


426 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she 

came, 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is  lovelier  thanall  others — onherhead 
A  diamond  circlet,  and  from  under  this 
A   veil,    that    seem'd   no  more   than 

gilded  air, 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an   Eastern 

gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,    with   that 

grace  of  hers, 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave   against  the 

wind. 
That   flings  a  mist  behind  it   in   the 

sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 

babe. 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 

crown 'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself — 
And  over  all  her  babe  and   her   the 

jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash'd,for  he  had  decked 

them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in  :  —  1  am  long  in  tell- 
ing it. 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange. 
Sad,   sweet,   and  strange   together  — 

floated  in,  — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amaze- 
ment rose,  — 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall, 
Before   the   board,  there  paused  and 

stood,  her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her 

feet. 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights 

nor  feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men ; 

who  cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell'd 

world 
About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like   to 

prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he 

saw. 

"My  guests,"  said  Julian:    "you 
are  honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost :  in  her  behold 


Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 

me." 
Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  our- 
selves, 
Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble 

too 
And  heard  him  muttering,  "  So  like, 

so  like  ; 
She  never  had  a  sister.     I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  —  O  God, 

so  like  !  " 
And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if  she 

were. 
She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down, 

and  was  dumb. 
And  then  some  other  question'd  if  she 

came 
From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did 

not  speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers  :  but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a 

word. 
Which   made  the   amazement  more, 

till  one  of  them 
Said,    shuddering,    "  Her    spectre  !  " 

But  his  friend 
Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  "  Not  at 

least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken 

to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to  find  her, 

dumb  !  " 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd 

all: 
"  She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you 

see 
That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke 

about. 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now  ; 
Which  will  not  last.     I  have  here  to- 
night a  guest 
So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 

loss  — 
What  !  shall  I  bind  him  more  ?  in  his 

behalf. 
Shall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 

to  me, 


THE   GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


437 


Not   only   showing?   and  he   himself 

pronounced  I 

That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to     | 
give. 

"  Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 

of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show  you  all  my 

heart." 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 
The   passionate   moment    would    not 

suffer  that  — 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to   the  burial ; 

thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his 

own  hall  ; 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his 

guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment ;  all  but 

he, 
Lionel,   who  fain   had  risen,  but  fell 

again, 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  —  to  whom  he 

said  : 

"  Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 

your  wife ; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you 

lost. 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring 

her  back  : 
I  leave  this  land  forever."    Here  he 

ceased. 


Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  oae 
hand. 

And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble 
babe. 

He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Li- 
onel. 

And  there  the  widower  husband  and 
dead  wife 

Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that 
rather  scein'd 

For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  re- 
new'd  ; 

At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 

At  once  they  tuni'd,  and  caught  and 
brought  him  in 

To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half- 
killing  him 

With  kisses,  round  Iiim  closed  and 
claspt  again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  him- 
self 

From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a 
face 

All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life. 

And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  —  the 
sight  of  this 

So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turn- 
ing to  me 

And  saying,  '*  It  is  over  :  let  us  go  "  — 

There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the 
doors  — 

We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount- 
ing these 

He  past  for  ever  from  his  native  land  ; 

And  1  with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to 
mint. 


428 


TIMBUCTOO. 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 

NOTE.  —  The  Poems  which  follow  include  all  those  which  have  been  omitted  by  the  author 
from  his  latest  revised  editions,  or  never  acknowledged  by  him.  They  are  here  printed, 
because,  although  unsanctioned  by  Mr.  Tennyson,  they  have  recently  been  collected  from 
various  sources,  and  piinted  i)i  Ametica. 


TIMBUCJOO.* 

"  Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A  mystic  city,  goal  of  high  emprise." 

Chap.man. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  Mountain  which 
o'erlooks 

The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  inter- 
val 

Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe,  when 
the  Sun 

Had  fall'n  below  th'  Atlantic,  and 
above 

The  silent  heavens  wereblench'd  with 
faery  light, 

Uncertain  whether  faery  light  or  cloud, 

Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms 
of  deep,  deep  blue 

Slumber'd  unfathomable,  and  the  stars 

Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory  and 
pale. 

I  gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  be- 
yond. 

There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time 
infix'd 

The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 

Long  time  erased  from  earth  :  even  as 
the  Sea 

When  weary  of  wild  mroad  buildeth 

Huge   mounds   whereby  to   stay  his 

yeasty  waves. 
And  much  I  mused  on  legends  quaint 

and  old 
Which  whilotne  won  the  hearts  of  all 

on  earth 
Toward  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame 

draws  air ; 

*  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancel- 
lor's Medal  at  the  Cambridge  Commence- 
ment MDCCCXXIX.  By  A.  TENNYSON, 
of  Trinity  College. 


But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of 

man 
As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame :   and  thou 

wert  then 
A  centred  glory-circled  memory, 
Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later 

name, 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roof 'd  with  gold  : 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks 

of  change. 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident. 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which 

would  not  die. 
As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the 

walls 
Shake,  and   the   streets  with  ghastly 

faces  thronged. 
Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  voice. 
Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 
At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 
Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 
Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith, 

the  while 
Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips 

and  winks 
Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without  : 
Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble 

knees. 
Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and 

gazeth  on 
Those   eyes  which   wear  no  light  but 

that  wherewith 
Her  fantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye, 
Thrones  of  the   Western  wave,  fair 

Islands  green  ? 
Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your 

cedarn  glooms. 
The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  .' 
Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold- 
sanded  bays 


TIMBUCTOO. 


42^ 


Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odor- 
ous winds  ? 

Where  are   the   infinite   ways,  which, 
seraph-trod, 

Wound   through   your  great   Elysian 
solitudes, 

Whose   lowest   deeps   were,   as  with 
visible  love. 

Filled  with  Divine  effulgence,  circum- 
fused, 

Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polished 
stems, 

And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald 
cones 

In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 

The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints 
in  Heaven? 

For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 

In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played 
about 

With  its  peculiar  glory.    Then  I  raised 

My   voice   and    cried,    "  Wide   Afric, 
doth  thy  Sun 

Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 

As  those  which  starred  the  night  o'  the 
elder  world  ? 

Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 

A  dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient 
time?" 
A  curve  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebb- 
ing light ! 

A  rustling  of  white  wings  !  the  bright 
descent 

Of  a  young  Seraph  !  and  he  stood  be- 
side me 

There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into  my 
face 

With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs. 

So  that  with  hasty  motion  I  did  veil 

My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw 
bet'ore  me 

Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart 
the  eyes 

Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday 
Sun. 

Girt  with  a  zone  of  flashing  gold  be- 
neath 

H  is  breast,  and  compassed  round  about 
his  brow 

With  triple  arch  ofeverchangingbnws, 

And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living  lipht 

And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 
"  O  child  of  man,  why  muse  you 
here  alone 


Upon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreamt  of 

old 
Which  filled   the   earth   with  passing 

Iovelines.s, 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  the  howl- 
ing winds, 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise? 
Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mor- 
tality : 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see  " 

I  loi^jked,  but  not 
Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the 

light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  looked 

from  out 
The    starry    glowing    of   his    restless 

eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my 

spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew 

large 
With   such   a  vast    circumference  of 

thought, 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seemed  to  stand 
Upon   the  outward  verge  and  bound 

alone 
Of  full  beatitude.     Each  failing  sense. 
As  with  a  momentarv  flash  of  light. 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.     I 

.saw 
The   smallest  grain  that  dappled  the 

dark  earth. 
The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air. 
The  Moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal 

width 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver 

heights 
Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud. 
And     the     unsounded,     undescended 

depth 
Of  her  black  hollows.     The  clear  gal- 
axy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful. 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  jwints 

of  light. 
Blaze  within    blaze,   an    uniroagined 

depth 
And  harmony  of  nlanel-girded  Mins 
And  moon-encircled  planets,  wheel  in 

wheel. 
Arched  the  wan  sapphire.     Nay  —  th« 

hum  of  men, 


430 


TIMBUCTOO. 


Or  other  things  talking  in  unknown 

tongues, 
And  notes  of  busy  life  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a  far  wave  on  my  anxious  ear. 
A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrill- 
ing thoughts, 
Involving  and   embracing  each  with 

each, 
Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked, 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitat- 
ing sense. 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried 

through 
The   riven   rapt   brain  ;    as   when    in 

some  large  lake 
From   pressure   of  descendent   crags, 

which  lapse 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  par- 
ent slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing 

spheres 
Which   break   upon  each  other,  each 

th'  effect 
Of  separate  impulse,    but  more  fleet 

and  strong 
Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid   the  wild   unrest    of  swimming 

shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I  know  not  if  I  shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now. 
Less  vivid  than  a  half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  maybe  I  entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  to 

me 
As   even    then   the   torrent    of   quick 

thought 
Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fieetness.     Where  is  he, 

that  borne 
Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowystream. 
Could  link  his  shallop  to  the  fleeting 

edge, 
And   muse   midway  with  philosophic 

calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regu- 
late 


The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  ele- 
ment ? 
My  thoughts  which  long  had  grov- 
elled in  the  slime 

Of  this  dull  world,  like  dusky  worms 
which  house 

Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 

Upon  some  earth-awakening  day  of 
Spring 

Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 

Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both 
sides 

Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which 
burn 

Fan-Hke    and    fibred    with   intensest 
bloom ; 

Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low, 
now  felt 

Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 

To   bear   them    upward  through   the 
trackless  fields 

Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 
Then   first  within    the   South  me- 
thought  I  saw 

A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 

Of  rampart  upon   rampart,  dome  on 
dome. 

Illimitable  range  of  battlement 

Onbattlement,'andthe  Imperial  height 

Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 

In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  daz- 
zling peaks 

Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth's 

As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.     Each 
aloft 

Upon   his  narrowed    eminence    bore 
globes 

Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  sem- 
blances 

Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 

Of  radiance.    But  the  glory  of  the  place 

Stood  out  a  pillared  front  of  burnished 
gold, 

Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 

Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 

Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where 
no  gaze 

Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye 
could  scan. 

Through  length  of  porch  and  valve  and 
boundless  hall. 

Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  where- 
from 


TIMBUCTOO. 


431 


The  snowy  skirting  of  a  garment  hung, 
And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
'1  hat  ministered  around  it  —  if  I  saw 
These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human 

brain 
Staggered   beneath    the    vision,    and 

thick  night 
Came  down  upon  myeyelids,and  I  fell. 
With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me 

up: 
Then  with  a  mournful  and  inetTable 

smile, 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a  moment 

filled 
My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears. 
In  accents  of  majestic  melody, 
Like  a  swoln  river's  gushings  in  still 

night 
Mingled  with  floating  music,  thus  he 

spake  : 
"  There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I 

to  sway 
The  heart  of  man  ;  and  teach  him  to 

attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable  ; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty 

stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  \iTapt  about 

with  clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.*     With  earliest 

light  of  Spring, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertide, 
And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds 

are  wild 
With  gambols,  and  when  full-voiced 

Winter  roofs 
The   headland   with    inviolate  white 

snow, 
I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways, 
Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his 

ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and 

wood, 
—  Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and 

of  waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind — 
And  win  him  unto  me  :  and  few  there 

be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and 

known 
A  higher  than  they  see  :  they  with  dim 

eyes 
•  "  Be  ye  perfect,  even  as  your  Father  in 
heaven  is  perfect." 


Behold  me  darkling.  Lo !  I  have 
given  thee 

To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feci 

My  fulness  :  1  have  tilled  thy  lips  wiil> 
power. 

I  have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres 
of  heaven, 

Man's  first,  last  home  :  and  thou  with 
ravished  sense 

Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 

The  illimitable  years.    1  am  tlie  Spir;!, 

The  permeating  life  which  couI^clll 
through 

All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 

Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  out- 
spread 

With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and 
clusters  rare, 

Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heav- 
en, 

Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth  ; 

So  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  ref- 
uge in 

The  fraj;rance  of  its  complicated 
glooms. 

And  cool  impeached  twilights.  Child 
of  man, 

Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translu- 
cent ware, 

Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  wind- 
eth  through 

The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 

The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremulous 
domes, 

Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stalely 
palm. 

Her  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet 
bells, 

Her  obelisks  of  rangc'd  chrysolite. 

Minarets  and  towers?  Lo  !  how  he 
passeth  by, 

And  gulfs  himself  in  sands,  as  not  en- 
during 

To  carry  through  the  world  those 
waves,  which  bore 

The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depth. 

O  city  !  O  latest  throne  !  where  I  w^s 
raised 

To  be  a  myster>'  of  loveliness 

Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  wcllnigh  come 

When  I  must  render  up  this  glorious 
home 

To  keen  Discovery  ;  soon  yon  brilliant 
towers 


432 


THE    ''HO IV   AND    THE   ''WHY 


Shall  darken  with  the  waving  of  her 
wand  ; 

Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into 
huts, 

Black  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary 
sand, 

Low-built,  mud-walled,  barbarian  set- 
tlements. 


How  changed  from  this  fair  city  !  " 

Thus  far  the  Spirit  : 
Then  parted  heavenward  on  the  wing  : 

and  I 
Was  left  alone    on   Calpe,    and    the 

moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was 

dark  ! 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   IN  THE  EDITION  OF  1830, 
AND  OMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


ELEGIACS. 

Low- FLOWING  breezes  are  reaming  the 
broad  valley  dimmed  in  the 
gloaming  : 

Thro'  the  black-stemmed  pines  only 
the  far  river  shines. 

Creeping  through  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  bab- 
ble and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly ; 
the  grasshopper  carolleth  clear- 
ly ; 

Deeply  the  turtle  cooes  ;  shrilly  the 
owlet  halloos  ; 

Winds  creep  :  dews  fall  chilly  :  in  her 
first  sleep  earth  breathes  stil- 
ly : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  watergnats 
murmur  and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth  :  the  glim- 
mering water  outfloweth  : 

Twin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slope 
to  the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between 
the  two  peaks  ;  but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him 
beueatii  in  her  breast. 

The  ancient  jioetess  singeth  that  Hes- 
perus all  things  bringeth, 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind :  bring 
me  my  love,  Rosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning  and  even  ;  she 
cometh  not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is 
my  sweet  Rosalind  ? 


THE 


HOW  "      AND      THE 
"  WHY." 


I  AM  any  man's  suitor, 
If  any  will  be  my  tutor: 
Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 
In  time  there  is  no  present, 
In  eternity  no  future. 
In  eternity  no  past. 
We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we 

die. 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  Jiow  and  the 
ivhy  ? 

The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 
The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other  : 
What  is  it  they  say  ?  what  do  they  there  ? 
Why  two   and   two   make  four.^  why 

round  is  not  square  ? 
Why  the   rock   stands  still,  and    the 

light  clouds  fly  ? 
Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the 

white  willows  sigh  ? 
Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not 

deep? 
Whether  we  wake,   or    whether    we 

sleep  ? 
Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die  ? 
How  you  are  you  .'  why  I  am  I  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 

why  ? 

The   world  is  somewhat ;  it  goes  on 

.somehow  : 
But  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and 


SUPPOSED   COXFESSIOXS. 


433 


I  feel  there  is  something ;  but  how 

and  what  ? 
I  know  there  is  somewhat :  but  what 

and  why  ? 
I  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 
The    little    bird    pipeth  —  "  why  ? 

wliy  ?  " 
In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun 

falls  low, 
And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite 

bough, 
And   stares   in   his   face,    and   shouts 

"  how?  hosv? " 
And   the   black   owl  scuds  down  the 

mellow  twilight, 
And  chants  "  how  ?  how  ?  "  the  whole 

of  the  night. 

Why  the  life  goes  when  the  blood  is 

spilt? 
What  the   life   is  ?  where   the  soul 

may  lie  ? 
Why  a  church  is  with  a  steeple  built  : 
And  a  house  with  a  chimney-pot  ? 
Who  will   riddle  me  the  how  and  the 

what  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and  the 

why  ? 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS 

OF   A   SECOND-RATE    SENSITIVE     MIND 
NOT  IN    UNITY  WITH    ITSELF. 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  7>te, 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn, 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  j^irt  thy  brow, 
Wounding  thy  soul.  —  That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the   slumberous  summer 

noon 
^yhi]e  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone. 
Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  I 
Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low? 
The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 
The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 
All   cold,  and   dead,  and   corpse-like 

grown  ? 
And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou. 
And  faith  in  thee  ?    Men  pass  me  by  ; 
28 


Christians  with  happy  counlenancei  — 
And  children  all  seem  lull  ol  ilicc  ! 
And     women     smile     with     saintlike 

glances 
Like   thine   own    mother's  when   she 

bowed 
Above  thee,  on  that  happy  mom 
When  angels  spake  to  men  aluud. 
And   thou   and   peace    to  earth  were 

born. 
Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 
—  I   one  of  them  :  my  broiiiers  they  : 
Brothers  in  Christ  — a  world  of  peace 

And  contidence,  day  alter  day  ; 
And  trust  and  hojie  till  things  should 

cease. 
And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith  ! 
'I'o  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death  I 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The   creaking    cords  which  wound 
and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth   goes   to  earth,  with  grief,  not 
fear. 
With    hopeful   grief,   were   passing 
sweet  I 
A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull. 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 
Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  sav  — 
'•  These  little  motes  and  grains  shall 

be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 
All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men. 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  show- 
ers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all.  and  be 
Indued  with  immortality." 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee  I 
Who  lets  his  waxen  finger*  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  kno*-« 
Nrjthing  bevond  his  mother's  eve*. 
'J'hey  comtort  him  bv  night  and  day, 
They  light  his  little  life  alway  ; 


434 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIOXS. 


He  Iiath  no  thought  of  coming  woes  ; 
He  hath  no  care  of  Hfe  or  death, 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  tlie  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart. 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtile,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which,  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
P'ull  fills  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh  !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt. 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 
Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propped  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  up- 
held 
In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows, 
For  me  outpoured  in  holiest  prayer  — 
For  me  unworthy  !  — and  beheld 
The  mild    deep   eyes  upraised,    that 

knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 
And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 
Oh  !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep?  why 

dare 
Paths  in  the  desert?     Could  not  I 
Bow   myself  down,  where   thou  hast 

knelt. 
To  th'  earth  —  until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  reared  —  to  brush 

the  dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay? 
Myself?    Is  it  thus?    Myself?    Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ?     But  why 
Prevailed  not  thy  pure  prayers?    Why 

pray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not?  Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard  ?    What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 


Through  utter  dark  a  full-sailed  skiff, 
Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  !     I  know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong, 
I'hat  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive. 
In  deep  and  daily  prayers  wouldst  strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmurstill  — 
"  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will." 
-Wouldst  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod. 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride  ; 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God  ! 
That  hitherto  I  had  defied, 
And  had  rejected  God  —  that  Grace 
Would   drop  from   his   o'erbrimming 

love. 
As  manna  on  my  wilderness. 
If  I    would   pray  —  that   God   would 

move 
And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and 

thence. 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which  would  keep  green  hope's  life. 

Alas  ! 
I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Or  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void, 
Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ?    Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested  ?   Ask  the  sea 
At   midnight,    when   the   crisp    slope 

waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbas^d  beach,  wh>  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and 

paves 
The  other  ?     I  am  too  forlorn. 
Too  shaken  :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls. 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and 

fear. 

"  Yet,''  said  I  in  my  morn  of  youth, 
The  unsunned  freshness  of  ray  strength, 


TO- 

435 

When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 

THE   DURL\L  OF   LOVE. 

"  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt, 

If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  Icngtii, 

His  eyes  in  eclipse. 

Truth  may  stand   forth    unmoved   of 

Pale-cold  his  lips, 

change. 

The  light  of  his  liui)<:s  unfed, 

An  image  with  profulgent  brows, 

Mute  his  tongue. 

And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 

His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed. 

Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 

Of  lawless  airs,  at  last  stood  out 

Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head. 

This  excellence  and  solid  form 

Love  is  dead  : 

Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  Ox 

His  last  arrow  is  sped  ; 

Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 

He  hath  not  another  dart ; 

The  horned  valleys  all  about, 

Go  —  carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed  ; 

And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 

Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 

In  summerheats,  with  placid  lows 

Love  is  dead. 

Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 

About  his  hoof     And  in  the  flocks 

0  truest  love  !  art  thou  forlorn. 

The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year. 

And  unrevenged  ?  thy  pleasant  wiles 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere. 

Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy  ? 

And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 

Shall  hollow-hearted  apathy. 

From  the  flowered  furrow.    In  a  time, 

The  cruellest  form  of  jK-rtect  scorn, 

Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 

With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles, 

Through  his  warm  heart:    and  then, 

Forever  write, 

from  whence 

In  the  withered  light 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 

Of  the  tearless  eye. 

A  shadow  ;  and  his  native  slope 

An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  ? 

Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 

No  !  sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes. 

And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall. 

His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 

Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shinelh 

Shall  men  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 

to  all  : 

As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream. 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change; 

Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on? 

For   her    the    green    grass   shall    not 

Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 

spring, 

Of  life   and  death,  and    things   that 

Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  bird* 

seem. 

sinir. 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 

Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 

Our  double  nature,  and  compare 

All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one. 

If  one  there  be?"     Ay  me  !     I  fear 

All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 

TO  . 

Some  must  clasp  Idols     Vet,  my  God, 

Whom  call  I  Idol  ?     Let  thy  dove 

Sainted  Juliet  !  dearest  name  I 

Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 

If  to  love  be  life  alone, 

He  unremembered,  and  ihy  love 

Divinest  Juliet. 

Enlighten  me.     O  teach  me  yet 

I  love  thee,  and  live  ;  and  yet 

Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 

Love  unreturned  is  like  the  fragrant 

Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 

flame 

Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 

Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 
Offered   to  grnls    upon   an   altar- 

In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

throne  ; 

0  weary  life  !  O  weary  death  I 

My  heart  is  lighted  at  ihine  eyes. 

O  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate  ! 

Changed  into  fire,  and   blown   about 

0  damned  vacillating  state  1 

with  sighs. 

436 


SONG. 


SONG. 


I'  THE  glooming  light 
Of  middle  night 
So  cold  and  white, 
Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave, 
Beside  her  are  laid 
Her  mattock  and  spade, 
For  she  hath  half  delved  her  own  deep 
grave. 
Alone  she  is  there  : 
The  white   clouds   drizzle  :    her  hair 
fails  loose  : 
Her  shoulders  are  bare  ; 
Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded 
dews. 


Death  standeth  by ; 
She  will  not  die  ; 
With  glazed  eye. 
She  looks  at  her  grave  :  she  cannot 
sleep  ; 
Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan  : 
She  cannot  speak  :  she  can  only  weep, 
For  she  will  not  hope. 
The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  flake  by 
flake. 
The  dull  wave  monms  down 
the  slope, 
The  world  will   not  change,  and  her 
heart  will  not  break. 


SONG. 


The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear  ; 
All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year, 
If  that  he  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 
Alas  !  that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  so  dull  an  ear  ! 


Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death  ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 


That  from  thee  issueth, 
Our  life  evanisheth  : 

O,  stay  ! 
Alas  !  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath  ! 


Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a  king, 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling, 
And  longer  hear  us  sing  ; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 

Yet  stay. 
Alas  !  that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  ! 


Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on  ; 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

O,  stay  1 
Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 


SONG. 


Every  day  hath  its  night : 

Every  night  its  morn  : 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne  \ 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade  ; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade  — 
Ah !  welaway  ! 


When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  happy  vein, 
We  're  so  kin  to  earth, 

Pleasaunce  fathers  pain  — 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Madness  laugheth  loud  : 

Laughter  bringeth  tears  : 

'His  crisp6  hair  in  ringis  was  yronne." 

CHAUCER,  K7iigh(es  Tale, 


ALL    THIXGS    WILL   DIE,                                 43, 

Eyes  are  worn  away 

The  world  was  never  made  ; 

Till  the  end  of  fears 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 

Cometh  in  the  shroud, 

So  let  the  wind  range  ; 

Ah  !  welaway  1 

For  even  and  mom 

III. 
All  IS  change,  woe  or  weal  ; 

Ever  will  be 

Through  eternity. 
Nothing  was  bom  ; 

Nothing  will  die  ;                         1 
All  things  will  change.                        j 

Joy  is  Sorrow's  brother  ; 

Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other  : 

Ah  !  welaway  ! 

1 

Larks  in  heaven's  cope 
Sing  :  the  culvers  mourn 

ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

All  the  livelong  day. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its 

Be  not  all  forlorn  : 

flowing 

Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 

Under  my  eye ; 

Ah  !  welaway  ! 

Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds 



are  blowing 
Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 

NOTHING  WILL   DIE. 

VVhe.m  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of 

fleeting  : 

flowing 

Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joy- 

Under  my  eye  ? 

ance  is  beating 

When   will   the   wind   be   aweary  of 

Full  merrily  ; 

blowing 

Yet  all  things  must  die. 

Over  the  sky  ? 

The  stream  will  ce.ise  to  flow  ; 

When   will  the  clouds  be    aweary  of 

The  wind  will  cease  to  blow  ; 

fleeting  ? 
When   will   the   heart  be  aweary   of 

The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 

The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 

beating? 

For  all  things  must  die. 

And  nature  die  ? 

Never,  O  never  !  nothing  will  die  ; 

All  things  must  die. 

The  stream  flows, 

Spring  will  come  nevermore. 

The  wind  blows, 

0,  vanity  !                                      > 

The  cloud  fleets. 

Death  waits  at  the  door. 

The  heart  beats. 

See  !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 

Nothing  will  die. 

The  wine  and  mern-making. 

We  are  called  —  we  must  go. 

Nothing  will  die  ; 

Laid  low,  very  low. 

All  things  will  change 

In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 

Through  eternity. 

The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

'T  is  the  world's  winter  ; 

The  voice  of  the  bird 

Autumn  and  summer 

Shall  no  more  be  lic.ird. 

Are  gone  long  ago. 

Nor  the  wind  on  the  hiil. 

Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

U,  misery  1 

But  spring  a  new  comer  — 

Hark  !  death  is  cilling 

A  spring  rich  and  strange, 

While  I  speak  to  ve. 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 

The  jaw  is'"  •  •                                ' 

Round  and  round, 

The  red  c ' 

Through  and  through, 

The  stro- 

Here  and  there. 

Ice  with  i!                            ..-..„.        , 

Till  the  air 

The  eych  • 

And  the  ground 

Shall  be  filled  with  life  anew. 

Ninctimt                            .gbell: 

Ye  merry  o^u.^  .-.w.^.i. 

438                                                 THE   MYSTIC. 

The  old  earth 

O  go  not  yet,  my  love  f 

Had  a  birth, 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low  ; 

As  all  men  know 

The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Long  ago, 

Those  marble  steps  below. 

And  the  old  earth  must  die. 

The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

So  let  the  warm  wnids  range, 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 

And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore  ; 

Leander  !  go  not  yet. 

For  even  and  morn 

The  pleasant  stars  have  set: 

Ye  will  never  see 

O,  go  not,  go  not  yet. 

Through  eternity. 

Or  I  wiir  follow  thee  ! 

All  things  were  born. 
Ye  will  come  nevermore, 

For  all  things  must  die. 

THE  MYSTIC. 

Angels  have   talked  with  him,   and 

HERO   TO   LEANDER. 

showed  him  thrones  : 

O  GO  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 

Ye  knew  him  not;  he  was  not  one  of  ye. 
Ye  scorned  him  with  an  undiscerning 

The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven 
above, 

scorn  : 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  in  his 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
0,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again. 

eye. 
The  still  serene  abstraction  :  he  hath 

felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before  ; 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last  ! 
O  kiss  me  ere  we  part  ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart  ! 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than   the 
bosom  of  the  main. 
0  joy  !  0  bliss  of  blisses  ! 

Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stern  experiences  of  converse  lives. 
The  linked  woes  of  many  a  fiery  change 
Had  purified,  and  chastened,  and  made 

free. 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  night 

and  day. 
Of  wayward  vary-colored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene. 
Colossal,  without   form,  or  sense,  or 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Haric  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 
'    And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy 

sound. 

limbs, 

Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir  ; 

Fourfaced  to  four  corners  of  the  sky  : 

Thine  eye  in  drops  ofgladness  swims. 

And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleas- 

one. 

ant  myrrh  ; 

One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but 

Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 

one  ; 

Thou   shalt  not  wander  hence   to- 

And yet  again,  again  and  evermore, 

night. 

For  the  two  first  were  not,  but  only 

I  '11  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 

seemed, 

To-night  the  roaring  brine 

One  shadow  in  the  midst  of  a  great  light, 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses; 

One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time. 

The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 

One   mighty  countenance   of  perfect 

Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  ; 

calm, 

And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with 

Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 

a  kiss  as  soft  as  mine. 

For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours. 

No  Western  odors  wander 

Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tall,  be- 

On the  black  and  moaning  sea. 

neath 

And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shin- 

My soul  must  follow  thee  ! 

ing  eyes 

Lore,   PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFULNESS. 


Smilins;  a  godlike  smLW  (the  innocent 

right 

Of  earliest  youth  oier'-cd  through  and 

through  with  ?U 
Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  h-^ld  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  low-hung  on  either  gate 

of  lif«i, 
Both  birth  and  death  :  he  in  the  centre 

fixt, 
Saw  far  on   each   side    through    the 

grated  gates 
Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  dis- 
tances. 
He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 
In  intellect  and  power  and  will,  hath 

heard 
Time  flowing  in  the  middleof  the  night, 
And   all  things  creeping  to  a  day  of 

doom. 
How  couM  ye  know  him  ?    Ye  were 

yet  within 
The  narrower  circle  :  he  had  wellnigh 

reached 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white 

tlame. 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a  larger  air 
Upbuniing,  and  an  ether  of  black  blue, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


Voice  of  the  summer  wind, 

Joy  of  the  summer  plain, 

Life  of  the  summer  hours, 

Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 

No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 

(Shame  fall  'em  they  are  deaf  and 

blind), 
But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong. 
Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flowers. 
Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quar- 

*■        >•«•.  .      . 

Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 
Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 
Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 
Thou  art  a  mailed  warrior  in  youth  and 
strength  complete  ; 
Armed  cap-a-pie 
Full  fair  to  see  ; 


Unknowing  fear, 

Undreading  loss, 
A  gallant  cavalier. 
Sans  peur  it  sans  reproiht. 
In  sunlight  and  in  bliaduM, 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 


I  would  dwell  wit!)  thee. 

Merry  grasshopper. 
Thou  an  so  glad  and  free, 

And  as  liglit  as  air  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears. 
Thou  hast  no  compt  of  years. 
No  withered  immortality. 
But  a  short  youth  sunny  and  free. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song. 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  priile. 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  asidu 
Of  the  singing  ilowercd  grasses. 
That  brush   thee  with  their  siikea 

tresses  } 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil, 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing. 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooras  ? 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND   FORGET- 
FULNESS. 

Ere  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love's 

tomb. 
Love  labored  honey  busily. 
I  was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  bee. 
My  heart  the  honeycomb. 
Oiie  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a  light 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all. 
Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  hi»  cell  : 
Pride  took   Love's  sweets,  aod  by  a 

spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall ; 
And  Memory,  tiiough  fed  by  Pndc, 
Did  wax  so  thin  on  g.dl. 
Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  alL 
What  marvel  that  she  died  ? 


44° 


LOVE   AND  SORROW. 


CHORUS 

IN    AN    UNPUBLISHED    DR/»  MA,    WRIT- 
TEN   VERY    EARLi'. 

The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven, 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea. 
The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarcliy, 
By  secret  fire  and  midniglit  storms 
That    wander    round    their  windy 
cones, 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 
Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of    man    and    beast   are   full   of 

strange 
Astonishment      and      boundless 
change. 

The  day,  the  diamonded  night, 

I'he  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound, 
The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might. 

The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound. 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom. 

The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth, 
1"he  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom, 
The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 
With   sheeny   white,    are   full    of 

strange 
Astonishment      and       boundless 
change. 

Each  sun  w-hich  from  the  centre  flings 

Grand  music  and  redundant  fire. 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings. 
The     murm'rous    planets'     rolling 
choir. 
The  globe-filled  arch   that,   cleaving 
air. 
Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps, 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare. 
And  tiumder  through  the  sapphire 
deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  and  full  of 

strange 
Astonishment      and      boundless 
change. 


LOST  HOPE. 

You  cast  to  ground   the  hope  which 
once  was  mine  : 
But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree 
deplore, 


Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant 
shrine. 
My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and 
was  no  more. 
So  on  an  oaken  sprout 
A  goodly  acorn  grew  ; 
But  winds  from  heaven   shook  the 
acorn  out. 
And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 


THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 
Heaven  weeps  above  the   earth  all 

night  till  morn. 
In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to 

weep. 
Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 

forlorn 
With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumbered 

years. 
And   doth  the  fruit  of  her' dishonor 

reap. 
And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 

her  tears 
Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and 

deep. 
And  showering  down  the  glory  of  light- 
some day. 
Smiles  on   the   earth's  worn  brow  to 

win  her  if  she  may. 


LOVE  AND   SORROW. 

O  maiden,  fresher  than  the  first  green 
leaf 

With  which  the  fearful  springtide  flecks 
the  lea. 

Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 

That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bit- 
ter H- 

Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 

Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crys- 
talline : 

Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst 
not  shine  : 

Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart, 
and  thine 

My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my 
heart, 

Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart's 
night 

Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy 
light, 


SO.VA-£r. 


44« 


All-powerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 

Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substance- 
less, 

Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to 
the  other  side, 

So  swit'tly,  that  they  nowhere  would 
abide, 

But  lose  themselves  in  utter  empti- 
ness. 

Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  my  spirit 
sleep  ; 

They  never  learned  to  love  who  never 
knew  to  weep. 


TO  A   LADY   SLEEPING. 

O  THOU,  whose  fringed  lids  I  gaze 
upon. 

Through  whose  dim  brain  the  wing6d 
dreams  are  borne, 

Unroof  the  slirines  of  clearest  vision, 

In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn  ; 

Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  vir- 
gin light 

Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dream- 
ful dark. 

Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night. 

Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised 
lark. 

With  eyes  dropt  downward  through 
the  blue  serene. 

Over  heaven's  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of 

woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i'  the 

spring  .    .      _ 

Hues  of  fresh  youth,     i!lTiftightily  out- 
grow 
The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffering  — 
Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 
A   sheeny  snake,  the    light   of  vernal 

bowers. 
Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of 

flowers 
And  watered  valleys  where  the  young 

birds  sing  ; 
Could  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's 

renewing, 
I  straightly  would  command  the  tears 

to  creep 


From  my  charged  lids  :  but  inwardly 

1  weep  ; 
Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  is  woo- 

ing  : 
That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen 

rain 
From   my  cold  eyes,   and  melted  it 

again. 

SONNET. 

Though  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak 

of  highest  noun. 
And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  au« 

tumn  whirl. 
All  night    through   archways  of  the 

bridged  pearl. 
And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the 

moon. 
Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony. 
Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to 

joy. 
And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious  alche- 
my. 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's 

annoy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow 

and  ruth 
That  roar  beneath  ;  unshaken  peace 

hath  won  thee  ; 
So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms 

of  truth  ; 
So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on 

thee  ; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's 

youth. 
An  honorable  eld  shall  come    upoo 

thee. 


SONNET. 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of 
Clood. 

Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind. 

Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased 
mind. 

Hateful  with  hanging  cheek*,  a  with- 
ered brood. 

Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient 
bI..o<l  ? 

O  that  the  wind  which  blowcth  cold  or 
heat 

Would  shatter  and  o'crbcar  the  brazen 
beat 


442 


LOVE. 


Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  soli- 
tude 
Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and 

blow  back 
Their  wild   cries   down   their  cavern 

throats,  and  slake 
With  points  of  blast-borne  hail  their 

heated  eyne  ! 
So   their  wan    limbs  no   more  might 

come  between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the 

night, 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar 

light. 


SONNET. 

The  pallid  thunder-stricken  sigh  for 

gain, 
Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 
And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a  boat, 
Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully 

they  strain 
Weak  eyes  upon  the  glistening  sands 

that  robe 
The  understream.    The  wise,  could  he 

behold 
Cathedraled   caverns  of  thick-ribbed 

gold 
And  branching  silvers  of  the  central 

globe, 
Would  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a  sight 
How   scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and   hate 

could  flow  : 
But  Hatred  in  a  gold  cave  sits  below ; 
Pleached  with   her   hair,  in   mail   of 

argent  light 
Shot  into  gold,  a  snake  her  forehead 

clips, 
AnJ  skins  the  color  from  her  trem- 
bling lips. 


LOVE. 


Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying 

love, 
Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near. 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe 

and  move, 
Though  night  and_pain  and  ruin  and 

death  reign  here. 
Thoufoldest,  like  a  golden  atmosphere. 


The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God  : 
Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his 

fear 
Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 
By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend 

the  sea, 
Even  from  its   central  deeps  :    thine 

empery 
Is    over    all  ;     thou   wilt    not    brook 

eclipse  ; 
Thou'goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 
Like  lightning  :  thou  dost  ever  brood 

above 
The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable 

Love. 

II. 
To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old 

age 
Is  but  to  know  thee  :  dimly  we  behold 

thee 
Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold 

thee. 
We  beat   upon  our  aching  hearts  iu 

rage  ; 
We  cry  for  thee  ;  we  deem  the  world 

thy  tomb. 
As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 
Hollowed  in  awful  chasms  of  wheeling 

gloom, 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on 

thee. 
Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  white- 
robed  love. 
Oh  !  rend  the  veil  in  twain  :  all  men 

adore  thee ; 
Heaven  crieth  after  thee  ;  earth  wait- 

eth  for  thee  ; 
Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it 

shall  move 
In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 


And  now  —  methinks  I  gaze  upon  thee 

now. 
As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 
Awe-stricken  Indians  ;  what  time  laid 

low 
And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds 

he  lies. 
When  the  new  vear  warm-breathed  on 

the  Earth, 
Waiting  to  light  him  with  her  purple 

skies. 


NATIONAL   SONG. 


443 


rails  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 
Already  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed 

eyes, 
And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 
To  wandendown  his  sable-sheenysides, 
Like  light  on  troubled  waters :   from 

wiihin 
Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din. 
And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength 

abides ; 
And  from  his  brows  a  crown  of  living 

light 
Looks    through   the   thick  -  stemmed 

woods  by  day  and  night. 


THE   KRAKEN 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep ; 

Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea. 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded 
sleep, 

The  Kraken  sleepeth  :  faintest  sun- 
lights flee 

About  his  shadowy  sides  :  above  him 
swell 

Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth 
and  height ; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light. 

From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret 
cell 

Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 

Winnow  with  giant  fins  the  slumbering 
green. 

There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 

Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his 
sleep. 

Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep ; 

Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be 
seen, 

In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  sur- 
face die. 


ENGLISH    WAR-SONG. 

Who  fears  to  die  ?   Who  fears  to  die  ? 
Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die? 
jie  shall  find' what  he  fears  ;  and  none 
shall  grieve 
For  the  man  who  fears  to  die  ; 
But  the  withering  scorn  of  the  many 
shall  cleave 
To  tlie  man  who  fears  to  die. 


CHORUS. 
Shout  for  England  I 
Ho  !  for  tnnland  ! 
George  for  England  I 
Merry  England  ! 
England  lor  aye  ! 
The  hollow  at  heart  shall  crouch 

forlorn. 
He  shall  eat  the  bread  of  common 
scorn  ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  tear. 
Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt  tear  : 
Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were 
bom 
Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 
Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc 
There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 
Hark  !    he  shouteth  —  the  ancient 
enemy ! 
On  th3  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banner* 
rise  ; 
They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies  ; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 
Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 
Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

Come  along  !  we  alone  of  the  earth 

are  free  : 
The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder 
than  he  : 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of 
slaves? 
Oh  !  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves? 
He  is  weak  I  we  are  strong  :  he  a  slave, 
we  are  free  : 
Come  along  !  we  will  dip  thcirgnivcs. 

Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  I  etc. 
There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  : 
Win  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free? 
Spur  along  !   spur  amain  !  charge  to 
the  fight : 
Charge  !  charge  to  the  fight  I 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  F.ngl.md  on  high  ! 
Shout  for  God  and  our  richt  ! 
Cho  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc 


NATIONAL  SONG. 

Thhre  is  no  land  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  he  : 

There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearty 
Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  b«. 


444 


THE  SEA    FAIRIES 


There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 
So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

CHORUS. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive 

'em, 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em  : 
As  for  the  French,  God  speed  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire, 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 

Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

FULL    CHORUS. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 
We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea  ; 
We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 
We  are  free. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids, 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

Cho.  —  For  the  French,  etc. 


DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a  crystal  flowerbell 
rocked. 
Hum  a  lovelay  to  the  west-wind  at 
noontide. 
Both  alike,  they  buzz  together. 
Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 
Through   and  through  the   flow- 
ered heather. 
Where   in  a  creeping  cove  the  wave 
unshocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide.  _ 
Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing 

feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  to- 
gether. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together. 

Side  by  side  ; 
Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 
Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath 
the  purple  weather. 


Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown 

the  lea  are  singing. 
As  they  gambol,   lily -garlands  ever 
stringing  : 
Both  in  blosmwhite  silk  are 
frocked  : 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under  a  summer  vault  of  golden 

weather  : 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 
Mid    May's    darling   golden 

locked. 
Summer's    tanling    diamond 
eyed. 


WE  ARE   FREE. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 

Leaning  upon  the  winged  sea, 
Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 

With    mellow  preludes,   "  We  are 
free." 
The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row 

Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea. 
Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 

Atween    the    blossoms,    "  We    are 
free." 


THE  SEA   FAIRIES.* 

Slow  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and 
saw 

Between  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam 

White  limbs  unrobed  in  a  crystal  air. 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  :  and  while  they 
mused, 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear. 

Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  mid- 
dle sea. 

SONG. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whith- 
er away  i*     Fly  no  more  : 
Wl>ither  away  wi'  the  singing  sail  ? 
whither  away  wi'  the  oar  ? 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field 
and  the  happy  blossoming  shore? 
Weary  mariners,  hither  away. 
One  and  all,  one  and  all, 
*  Original  form. 


Oi  p«o»^e?. 


Weary  mariners,  come  and  play  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  ; 
Furl  the  sail  and  the  foam  will  fall 
From  the  prow  !     One  and  all 
Furl  the  sail  !     Drop  the  oar  I 
Leap  ashore, 
Know  danger  and  trouble   and  toil 

no  more, 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  and  the  oar? 
Drop  the  oar, 
Leap  ashore. 
Fly  no  more  ! 
Whither  away  wi'   the  sail?  whither 
away  wi'  the  oar  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the 

fountain  calls  : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  ; 
Thev   freshen  the   silvery  -  crimson 

shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clo- 
ver-hill swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea. 
Merrily  carol  the  revelling  gales 

Over  the  islands  free  : 
From  the  green  seabanks  the  rose 
down  trails 
To  the  happy  brimmed  sea. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  and  be  our 
lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 
sweet  words. 
O   listen,   listen,  your  eyes  shall 

glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  rev- 
elry , 
O  listen,    listen,    your    eyes    shall 
glisten. 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the 
golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 


Ye  will  not  find  so  hanpy  a  shore, 
Weary  mariners  I  all  tne  world  o'er  ; 

O,  tiy  no  more  I 
Hearken   ye,   hearken    ye,   sorrow 
shall  darken  ye. 
Danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no 
more  : 

Whither  away  ? 
Drop  the  oar ; 
Hither  away 
Leap  ashore  ; 
O  fly  no  more  —  no  more  : 
Whither  away,  whither  awav,  whither 
away  with  the  sail  ana  the  uar  ? 


All  thoughts  all  creeds,  all  dreams 
arc  true. 

All  visions  wild  and  strange  ; 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himself.     /Ml  truth  is  change, 
All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 

Have  faith  in  that  they  dream  : 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 


There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause. 

Norgood  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade, 
Nor  essence  nor  eternal  l.iws  : 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 
But  if  I  dream  that  all  these  are, 

Thev  are  to  me  for  that  I  dream  : 
For  ail   things  are  as  they  seem  to 
all. 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 

Argal— this  very  opinion  is  only 
true  relatively  to  the  flowing  philoso- 
phers. 


446 


BONAPARTE. 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   IN  THE  EDITION  OF  1833, 
AND  OiMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


SONNET. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce 
and  free, 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down 
alone, 

With  the  selfsame  impulse  wherewith 
he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 
lea  :  — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 
and  isle, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many 
a  mile. 

Mine  be  the  Power  which  ever  to  its 
sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  de- 
grees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow  ; 

Even  as  the  great  gulfstream  of  Florida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 

TO   . 


All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof. 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 

I  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise, 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 


Shake   hands,  my   friend,  across  the 
blink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far — far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


When,  in  the  darkness  over  me. 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape. 
Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree 


Nor  wreathe   thy  cap  with   doleful 

crape, 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

IV. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green   beneath   the   showery 
gray. 
And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  through  damp  holts,  new  flushed 

with  May, 
Ring  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay  ; 

V. 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 

VI. 

If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  smile 
Undimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing  : 

Then  cease,  my  friend,  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 

VII. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 
Thy  words  will  be  ;  thy  cheerfultones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


BONAPARTE. 

He  thought    to    quell  the  stubborn 

hearts  of  oak. 
Madman  !  — to  chain  with  chains,  and 

bind  with  bands 
That  island  queen  that  sways  the  floods 

and  lands 
From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 

woke. 
When  from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by 

sure  hands. 
With    thunders,  and  with   lightnings, 

and  with  smoke, 


THE  HESPERIDES. 


Peal  after    peal,    the    British    battle 

broke, 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the   Coptic 

sands. 
We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when 

Elsinore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant 

sea, 
Rocking  with   shattered   spars,   with 

sudden  fires 
Flamed  over:  at  Trafalgar  yet  once 

more 
We  taught  him  :  late  he  learned  hu- 
mility 
Perforce,   like    those    whom    Gideon 

schooled  with  briers. 


SONNETS. 


0  BEAUTY,  passing  beauty  !  sweetest 

Sweet  I 
How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my 
youth  in  sighs  ? 

1  only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet. 
Thou  knowest  I  dare  not  look  into 

thine  eyes. 
Might  I  but  kiss  thy  hand  !  I  dare  not 
fold 
My  arms  about  thee  —  scarcely  dare 
to  speak. 
And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and 
bold. 
As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blessed 
cheek. 
Methinks  if  I  should  kiss  thee,  no  con- 
trol 
Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep 

afloat 
The   subtle    spirit.     Even   while    I 
spoke. 
The  bare  word  kiss  hath  made  my  in- 
ner soul 
To  tremble  like  a  lutestring,  ere  the 

note 
Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it 
broke. 

II. 
But  were  I  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be. 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of 

the  earth. 
And  range  of  evil  between  death  and 
birih. 


447 
if  I  were  loved 


That  I  should  fe.ir, 

by  thee  ? 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  ofiuin 
Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave, 

if  thou  wert  mine, 
As  I  have  !>eard  that,  somewhere  in 

the  main. 
Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through 

bitter  brine. 
'T  were  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-in- 
hand  with  thee. 
To  wait  for  death  —  mute  —  careless 

of  all  ills. 
Apart  upon   a  mountain,  though   the 

surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand 

hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the 

gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


THE  HESPERIDES. 

"  Ilespcrui  and  his  d-iughtcrs  three. 
That  sing  al><)Ut  the  golJcn  tree." 

Comus. 

The   North-wind  fall'n,  in  the  new- 
starred  night 
Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  ba>*s. 
Between  the  southern  and  the  wcitem 

Horn, 
Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 
Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward   from  the  shore  ;  but 

from  a  slope 
That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlan- 
tic blue, 
Beneath  a  highland   leaning  down  a 

weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar 

shade, 
Came  voices  Uke  the  voices  in  a  dream. 
Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer 
sea. 

SONG. 
I. 

The  golden  apple,  tlie  golden  apple, 

tlic  hallowed  fruit. 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 
Singing  airily. 


448 


THE  HESPERIDES. 


Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 

Round  about  all  is  mute, 

As  the  snow-field  on  the  mountain- 
peaks, 

As  the  sand-field  at  the  mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 

Sleep  and  stir  not  :  all  is  mute. 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  meas- 
ure, 

We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 

Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 

Laugh  not  loudly  :  watch  the  treasure 

Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 

In  a  corner  wisdom  whispers.  Five 
and  three 

(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make 
an  awful  mysterj'. 

For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music 
bloweth  ; 

Evermore  it  is  born  anew  ; 

And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  flow- 
eth. 

From  the  root 

Drawn  in  the  dark, 

Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 

Liquid  gold,  honeysweet,  thro'  and 
thro'. 

Keen-eyed  Sisters,  singing  airily, 

Looking  warily 

Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day. 

Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take 
it  away. 


Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 

watch,  ever  and  aye. 
Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver 

eye. 
Father,    twinkle    not    thy    steadfast 

sight  ; 
Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change, 

and  races  die  ; 
Honor  comes  with  mystery  ;_ 
Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 
Number,  tell  them  oyer  and  number 
How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds 
Lest  the  red-combed  dragon  slumber 
Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 
Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and 

the  golden  apple  be  stol'n  away. 
For  his  ancient   heart  is  drunk  with 

over-watchings  night  and  day. 


Round   about   the  hallowed  fruit-tree 
curled  — 

Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the 
wind,  without  stop. 

Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop, 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken. 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken. 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 
III. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 
watch,  night  and  day. 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be 
healed, 

The  glory  unsealed, 

The  golden  apple  stolen  away. 

And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 

Look  from  west  to  east  along  : 

Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Cauca- 
sus is  bold  and  strong. 

Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  wa- 
ters call  ; 

Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 

Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles. 

Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 

All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 

Half-round     the     mantling    night    is 
drawn, 

Purple  fringed  with  even  and  da%vn, 

Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hat- 
eth  morn. 

IV. 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redo- 
lent breath 
Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth, 
Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep  ; 
But  the  land-wind  wandereth, 
Broken  by  the  highland-steep, 
Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep  ; 
For  the  western  sun  and  the  western 

star. 
And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afar. 
The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 
Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright  ; 
Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright 

and  blest, 
Mellowed  in  a  land  of  rest ; 


KOSALIXD. 


Watch  it  warily  day  and  night  ; 

All  Rood  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  mid  noon  the  cool  ca-st  light 

Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow  : 

But  when  the  lull  laced  sunset  ye'.lowly 

Stays  on  the  tlowering  arcli  of  the 
bough, 

The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mel- 
lowly, 

Golden-kernelled,  golden  cored. 

Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and 
sword. 

But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the 
sea. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three. 

Daughters  three, 

l^ound,about 

The  gnarl.'d  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple, 
the  hallowed  fruit. 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Watch  it  warily. 

Singing  airily. 

Standing  about  the  charmid  root. 

ROS.ALIND. 


My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind. 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes. 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height 

of  rapid  flight. 
Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My   bright -eyed,    wild  -  eyed    falcon, 

whither. 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  ? 

II. 
Teqnicklark'sclosest-carolled  strains, 
I'he  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea. 
The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea. 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way. 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
.\s  you.  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 

29 


Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life   shoots   and   glances   tliro'    your 

vems. 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  wa\-s 
Through  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  mys. 
Your  hawkeyes  are  keen  and  br.pht. 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  »til! 
To   pierce  me   through  Miih   pointed 

light  :  *^ 

But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill. 
And  your  words  are  sceminp-bittcr. 
Sharp  and  lew,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 


Come   down,  come  home,  my  Rosa- 
lind. 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies  ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will ; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes. 
That  care  not  whom  thev  kill. 
And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling  fresh  to  view. 
Some  red  he.yh-flower  in  the  dew. 
Touched  with  simrise.     We  must  bind 
.And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 
Fast,  fast,  my  wild  eVed  Rosalind, 
And  clip   your  wings,  and  make   you 

love : 
When  we  have  lured  you  from  above. 
And  that  delight  of  fro'lit  flight,  by  day 

or  night. 
From  north  to  south  ; 
Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords. 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  ofTyour  rosy  mouth.* 

•.MTHoR'S    NOTI-.         I'   'hifv    the    W- 
Iriwinn  line  may  b-  I  .^»  \ 

sejiaratc  pocni ;  ori^;  j>.%r» 

of  the  text,  where  ll>  1>  »u- 

pcrfluous. 
My  Ros.ilin'1,  my  Ros.ilin<1, 
Bold,  •iiihtic,  careless  K'-s.jlind, 

IsnMu..rti,..,.  -.u... ;,     >.  no  strife 

Ofi:  ••ir; 

T.  .m  of  Ufe. 

Til  Md, 

In  •  .r. 

CIn 

M\  !. 

l-ii'i:  .  wind, 

Is  «CCp 


SONNE  T. 


SONG. 
Who  can  say 
Why  To-day 

To-morrow  will  be  yesterday  ? 
Who  can  tell 
Why  to  smell 

The  violet  recalls  the  dewy  prime 
Of  youth  and  buried  time  ? 
The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


KATE. 

I  KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 
Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black 
hair. 
Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill, 
As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a  hill. 
'Tis  Kate — she  sayeth  what  she  will: 
For  Kate  hath  an  unbridled  tongue. 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp. 
Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 

Like  a   new  bow,  and   bright  and 
sharp. 
As  edges  of  the  scymitar. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a fittingmate? 
For    Kate  no  common  love   will 
feel  ; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 
As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 

Kate    saith    "the    world    is  void   of 

might." 
Kate   saith   "  the   men    are  gilded 

flies." 
Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 
And  keen  deliffht,  that  never  falls 
Away  from  freshness,  sel''-upborne 
With  such  glacUiess  as,  whenever 
The  fresh-tlushinjj  springtime  calls 
To  the  flooding-  waters  cool. 
Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn, 
Up  and  down  a  rapid  river, 
Leap  the  little  waterfalls 
That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool, 
My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 
Hah  daring  fancies  of  her  own. 
Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day. 
Fresh  as  the  early  sea-smell  blown 
Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
Because  no  .shaciow  on  you  falls, 
Think  you  hearts  are  tennis-balls 
To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind  { 


I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 
Far  famed  for  well-won  enterprise. 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  garland  of  new-wreathed  era- 
prise  : 
For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight. 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right. 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady's  eyes. 
Oh  !  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and 
fierce  ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a  fitting  mate. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  OUT- 
BREAK OF  THE  POLISH  INSURREC- 
TION. 

Blow  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  ho'sts  to  battle  :  be  not  bought  and 

sold. 
Arise,  brave  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the 

bold  ; 
Break  through  your  iron  shackles  — 

fling  them  far. 
O  for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 
Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts 

cold; 
When  even  to  Moscow's  cupolas  were 

rolled 
The  growing  murmurs  of  the    Polish 

war  ! 
Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze  out 

more 
Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by  clan. 
The    Moslem   myriads   fell,  and  fled 

before  — 
Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tar- 
tar Khan  ; 
Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 
Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


SONNET 

ON    THE   RESULT    OF   THE   LATE   RUS- 
SIAN   INVASION    OF   POLAND. 

How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden 

down, 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and 

least 
Of  men?    The  heart  of  Poland  hath 

not  ceased 


TO   CHRISTOPHER   XORTH. 


4P 


To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood 
doth  drown 

The  fields  ;  and  out  of"  every  moulder- 
ing town  % 

Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased. 

Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the 
East 

Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some 
new  crown  :  — 

Ciies  to  Thee,  "Lord,  how  long  shall 
these  things  be  ? 

How  long  shall  the  icy-hearted  Mus- 
covite 

Oppress  the  region?"  Us,  O  Just 
and  Good, 

Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was 
torn  in  three  ; 

Us,  who  stand  noiv,  when  we  should 
aid  the  right  — 

A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of 
blood  ! 


SONNET. 

As  when  with  downcast  ej-es  we  muse 

and  brood, 
And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  a  confused  dream 
To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 
If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 

chair. 
Ever  the   wonder  waxelh   more   and 

more, 
So  that  we  say,  "  All  this   hath  been 

before. 
All  this  hath  been,   I  know  not  when 

or  where." 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  looked  upon 

your  face, 
Our  thought    gave  answer,   each    to 

each,  so  true, 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 
Aliho'    I  knew  not  in  what   time  or 

place. 


Methought  that  I  had  often  met  with 

you, 
And  each   had    liwd  in   the  other's 

mind  and  speech. 


O  DARLING  ROO.M. 


O  DARLING  room,  my  heart's  delight 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sizht, 
NVith  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white. 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite, 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright, 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


For  I  the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen. 
And  (Jberwinters  vineyards  green, 
Musical  Lurlei  :  and  between 
The  hills  to  Hingen  have  I  been, 
Bingen     in     Darmstadt,    where     the 

Rhene 
Curves  toward  Menti,  a  woody  scene. 


Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight, 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A  little  room  so  exquisite. 

With  two  such  couches  soft  and  white  ; 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright. 

Wherein  to  read,  wiierein  to  write. 


TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

Yof  did  late  review  my  lays. 

Crusty  Christopher  ; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise. 

Rusty  Christopher. 
When  I  learnt  from  whom  it  came, 
I  forgave  you  all  the  blame, 

.Musty  Christopher  : 
I  could  >io(  I'orgive  the  praise. 

Fusty  Christopher. 


452 


SOXXET. 


FUGITIVE    POEMS. 


NO  MORE.* 

0  SAD   Xo  More  !  O   sweet   A'o 

More  ! 
O  strange  Xo  3fore  .' 
By  a  mossed  brookbank  on  a  stone 

1  smelt  a  wildvveed  flower  alone  ; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And   both    my   eyes  gushed   out 

with  tears. 
Surely  all   pleasant  things  had  gone 

before, 
Low-buried  fathom  deep  beneath  with 

thee,  No  More! 


ANACREONTICS.* 
With  roses  musky-breathed, 
And  drooping  daffodilly. 
And  silver-leaved  lily, 
And  ivy  darkly-wreathed, 
I  wove  a  crown  before  her. 
For  her  I  love  so  dearly, 
A  garland  for  Lenora. 
With  a  silken  cord  I  bound  it. 
Lenora,  laughing  clearly 
A  light  and  thrilling  laughter, 
About  her  forehead  wound  it, 
And  loved  me  ever  after. 


A  FRAGMENT.t 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which 
stood 

In  the  niidnoon  the  glory  of  old 
Rhodes, 

A  perfect  Tdol  with  profulgent  brows 

Far-sheening  down  the  purple  seas  to 
those 

Who  sailed  from  Mizraim  underneath 
the  star 

Named  of  the  Dragon  —  and  between 
whose  limbs 

Of  brassy  vastness  broad-blown  Ar- 
gosies 

Drave  into  haven?  Yet  endure  un- 
scathed 

•  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  1831. 

t  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  1861. 


Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramidi 
Broad-based  amid  the  fleeting  sands, 

and  sloped 
Into  the  slumberous   summer  noon  ; 

but  where. 
Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undis- 

cerned  ? 
Thy   placid   Sphinxes  brooding   o'er 

the  Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 
Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far 

off 
Seen  by  the  high-necked  camel  on  the 

verge 
Journeying   southward?    Where   are 

tliy  momunents 
Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  An- 

akim 
O'  er  their  crowned  brethren  On  and 

Ol>H  ? 

Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips 
are  kist 

With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his  moth- 
er's eyes 

Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 

Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of 
morn 

Clear  melodv  flattering  the  crisped 
Nile 

By  columned  Thebes.  Old  Memphis 
hath  gone  down  : 

The  Pharaoiis  are  no  more :  some- 
where in  death 

Thev  sleej)  with  staring  eyes  and  gild- 
ed lips, 

Wrapped  round  with  spiced  cerements 
in  old  grots 

Rock-hewn  and  sealed  for  ever. 


SONNET.* 
Me   my   own   fate   to  lasting  sorrow 
doometh  : 
Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  trati- 
sitory  : 
*  Friendship's  Offering,  1833, 


THE  X£W  nJOSf  AMD  TMB  POETS 

Tbf  ftBriz,  cwSei  mtft   a   3>>umc  THE  SKIPPISEC-SOK.* 


•Co:,    rtf;    fn«  yn*;,  ;■■   tmsm  mm 


1  as  »  'Awk,  jflK! 


fir         rax  VEW  TllfOV  AVD  THE 
rOEfSt 


scxyirtT* 

vUXn 

«!«£  ^'JW  ixj  vli'.il  I 
Ihuk  »  !&e  j^ittUL.     Bimttmph  matittt    jl    irh»  link  J  Ac  mAami  dhrifad  As 


IW  9«fl«B4aM  — 


'.Mhrtfi 


b^uir 


Tl« 


Tlic 


Tm  faik4.  Sv:  *i»iHiii  hw  fW 

Sac  ari  aw  i^'  '^*j?;i^  ^iZi^r  r* 

.laii  OBdo*  «iM  *w  kMV  a^r 


Cui  -ror^-.a  ii^ic  — iMW  rjasi 


•  f  •«tJUtJtaj''*'*fintnic  2ir^ 


454 


BRITONS,   GUARD    YOUR   OWN. 


To  have  the  deep  Poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please  ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content ; 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease, 

With   moral   breadth   of  tempera- 
ment. 
And  what  with  spites  and  what  with 
fears, 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be  : 
It 's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

"  They  call  this  man  as  good  as  »r^." 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt  — 

A  dapper  boot  —  a  little  hand  — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt? 

You  talk  of  tinsel !  why,  we  see 
The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your 
cheeks. 

You  prate  of  Nature  !  you  are  he 
That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  TiMON.  you  !  Nay,  nay,  for  shame : 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest  — 

The  fierce  old  man  —  to  take  his  name. 
You  bandbox.    Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


STANZAS.* 

What  time  I  wasted  youthfvil  hours. 
One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 
Show'd  me  vast  cliffs  with  crown  of 
towers. 

As  towards  the  gracious  light  I  bow'd, 
They  seem'd  high  palaces  and  proud. 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  "  The  labor  is  not  small  ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all :  — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall  1  " 

SONNET 

TO  WILLIAM  CHARLES  MACREADY.t 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night 
we  part. 
Full-handed    thunders   often    have 

confest 
•  The  Keepsake,  rSsi- 
t  Read  tiy  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a  dinner 
given  to  Mr.  .Macready,  March  i,  1851,  on 
his  retirenM-'nt  from  the  stage. 


Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the 
public  breast. 
We  thank  thee  with   one  voice,  and 

from  the  heart. 
Farewell,  Macready;  since  this  night 
we  part. 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home  :  rank 

with  the  best, 
Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and 
the  rest 
Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their 

art. 
Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  panto- 
mime, 
And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children 
swarm  to  see. 
Farewell,    Macready ;    moral,   grave, 

sublime. 
Our  Shakespeare's  bland  and  universal 
eye 
Dwells  pleased,  thro'  twice  a  hun- 
dred years,  on  thee. 


BRITONS,   GUARD  YOUR 
OWN.* 

Rise,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not 

dead  ; 
The  world's  last  tempest  darkens  over- 
head ; 
The  Pope  has  bless'd  hisn  ; 
The  Church  caress'd  him  ; 
He  triumphs  ;  maybe  we  shall  stand 
alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plun- 
*  der'd  gold. 

By  lying  priests  the  peasants''  votes 
controll'd. 
All  freedom  vanish'd, 
The  true  men  banish'd, 
He  triumphs  ;  maybe  we  shall  stand 
alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we  — sweet  Peace  we  all 

desire  — 
Peace-lovers  we  —  but  who  can  trust  a 
liar?  — 
Peace-lovers,  haters 
Of  shameless  traitors, 
•  The  ExanuTier,  1852. 


THE    THIRD   OF  FEBRUARY,    1852. 


4SS 


We   hate  not  France,  but  this  man's 
lieart  of  stone, 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has 

lost  lier  voice. 
This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call 
her  choice. 
By  tricks  and  spjnng, 
By  craft  and  lying, 
And   murder  was  her  freedom    over- 
thrown. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

"Vive  I'Empereur"  may   follow  by 

and  by  ; 
"  God  save  the  Queen  "  is  here  a  truer 
cry. 
God  save  the  Nation, 
The  toleration, 
And   the    free    .speech    that   makes   a 
Briton  known. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  cap- 
tive France, 
The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on 
his  chance. 
Would  unrelenting, 
Kill  all  dissenting. 
Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across  Biscayan 

tides, 
To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken 
sides. 
Why  waste  they  yonder 
Their  idle  thunder? 
Whystay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign 
throne? 
Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long 

We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength, 
the  bow. 
Now  practise,  yeomen, 
Like  those  bowmen. 
Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have 
flown . 
Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  in- 
cline 

To  take  Sardinia,  Belgium,  or  the 
Rhine  : 


Shall  we  stand  idle. 
Nor  sock  to  bridle 
His   rude    ag>;rcssion!k,  till  we   .<ktand 
alone  ? 
Make  their  cause  your  own. 
Should  he  land  here,  and  fur  one  hour 

pievail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear 
the  tale  : 
No  man  to  bear  it  — 
Swear  it  I  we  swear  it  I 
Although  we  fight  the  banded  world 
alone. 
We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


THE   THIRD   OF    FEBRUARY, 
i852.* 

My  lords,  we  heard  you  speak  ;  you 

told  us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went 

too  wr ; 
That  our  free  press  should  cease  to 

brawl, 
Not  sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 

war. 
It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords 
To  fling  whatever  we  felt,  not  fearing. 

into  words. 
We   love   not    this   French  God,  this 

child  of  Hell. 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse 

of  the  wise  ; 
But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  »<«  well. 
We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanc- 
tion lies. 
It  might  safe  be  our  censures  lo  with- 
draw ; 
And  yet,  my  lords  not  well  :  there  it 

a  higher  law. 
As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  spe-^k 

free, 
Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on 

us  break  ; 
No  little  Cerman  slate  are  we. 

But  the  one  voice  in  Eun>pe  ;   we 

must  sjx-ak  ; 
That    if  to  night   our  grealncM  «<rre 

struck  dead. 
There   might   remain  some  record  of 

the  things  we  said. 
•  The  Examiner.  i8p,  joJsijfncd  "  MetUn.* 


456 


HANDS  ALL   ROUND. 


If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be  bold. 
Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a  tyrant 
o'er. 
Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd 

Oi.  her  and  us  and  ours  for  evermore. 
What !    have  we   fought   for   freedom 

from  our  prime, 
At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  pub- 
lic crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ?  our  own  we  never 

feared. 
From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we 

wrung  our  claims, 
Prick'd  by  tlie  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 
And  flung  the  burden  of  the  second 

James. 
I  say  we  never  fear'd  !  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  ihem  on  the  land,  we  drove 

them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  lords,  you  make  the  peo- 
ple muse, 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons' 

breed  — 
Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at 

Lewes  ? 
Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runny- 

mede  ? 
O  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overawed, 
Would  lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of  this 

monstrous  fraud. 
We   feel,  at   least,  that   silence   here 

were  sin. 
Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 

hosts  — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have   left   the   last  free   race  with 

naked  coasts  ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they 

had  to  guard  : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant 

one  hard  word. 

Though  nigeard  throats  of  Manchester 

may  bawl, 
What  Encland  was,  shall  her  true 

sons  forget  ? 
We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But   some   love   England,    and   her 

honor  yet. 
And  these   in  our  Thermopylae  shall 

stand. 
And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor 

of  the  land. 


HANDS   ALL   ROUND.* 

First   drink  a  health,   this    solemn 
night, 
A  health  to  England,  every  guest ; 
That  man  's  the  best  cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
RLiy  freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

V/ith  stronger  life  from  day  to  day ; 
That  man  's  the  best  Conservative 
Who   lops    the   mouldered    branch 
away. 
Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 
And   the   great   name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men  ! 
Heaven   guard   them  from   her  ty- 
rants' jails  1 
From  wronged  Poerio's  noisome  den, 
From  iron  limbs  and  tortured  nails  ! 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings, 
The    Russian    whips  and  Austrian 
rods  — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things ; 
Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers, 
Gods. 
Yet  hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  Europe's  better  health  we  drink, 
my  friends. 
And   the   great   name  of  England, 
round  and  round  ! 

What  health  to  France,  if  France  be 
she, 
Whom  martial  progress  only  charms? 
Yet  tell  her  —  better  to  be  free 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 
Why  ciiange  the  titles  of  your  streets? 
You   fools,    you    '11   want  them    all 
again. 
Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  coni'ound  ! 
To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink, 
my  friends, 
And   the   great  name   of  England, 

round  and  round. 
•  The  Examiner,  1852,  and  signed  "  Mer- . 


ox  A    SPITEFUL    LETTER. 


457 


Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 
We  know  thee  and  we  love  tliee  best, 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood? 
Should  war's  mad  blast  again  be  blown, 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  motlier  here  alone, 

Bal  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrants  cause  confound  ! 

To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my 

friends. 

And   the  great   name  of  England, 

round  and  round. 

O  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons. 
When    war    against    our    freedom 
springs  ! 
O  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 
Vounuist  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 
That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools  ; 
Our  freedom's  foemen  are  her  foes, 
She  comprehends  tiie  race  she  rules. 

Hands  all  round  I 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  our  dear  kinsman  in  the  West,  my 
friends, 
And  the  great   name   of  England, 
round  and  rout:d. 


THE  WAR.* 

There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar. 
Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the 
day. 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 
Well,  if  it  do  not  mil  our  way. 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns  1 

Be  not  gull'd  by  a  despot's  plea  ! 

Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns? 

Hnw  should  a  despot  set  men  free  ? 

Form  !  form  !   Riflemen  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 

Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a  moment  go, 
Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good 
aims. 
•  London  Times,  May  9,  1859. 


Better  a  rotten  borough  or  »o. 
Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  in  flame«I 
Form  I  form  I  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  sturm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die  ! 
Form  in  Freedom's  name  and  the 
Queen's  ! 
True,  that  we  have  a  faithful  ally. 
But  only  the  Devil  knows  what  he 
means. 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 

r. 

ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER.* 
Here,  it  is  here — the  close  of  tlie 
year. 
And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 
My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong. 
For  himself  has  done  much  better- 

0  foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard. 
If  men  neglect  your  jwges? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine  : 
I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  is  n't  fame  as  brief? 

My    rhymes  may    have    been   the 
stronger. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot ; 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

O  faded  leaf,  is  n't  fame  as  b^cf  ? 

What  room  is  here  for  a  hater  ? 
Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener 
leaf. 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I  —  is  n't  that  your  cry  ? 

.And  I  shall  live  In  sec  it- 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know; 

And  if  it  be  so  —  so  be  it ! 

O  summer  leaf,  isn't  life  as  brief? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  ever- 
green : 
I  hate  the  spiles  and  the  follies. 
•  Uncc  a  Week,  J.inuary  4.  i9tA. 


4S8 


THE    WINDOW. 


1865-1866.* 

I  STOOD  on  a  tower  in  the  wet, 
And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 
And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing  ; 
And  I  said,  "  O  years  that  meet-  in 

tears. 
Have    ye    aught    that    is  worth   the 

knowing  ? 

*  Good  Words,  March,  1868. 


Science  enough  and  exploring, 
Wanderers  coming  and  going, 
Matter  enough  for  deploring. 
But  aught   that  is  worth   the  know- 
ing ? 
Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing. 
Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring. 
Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing. 
And    New   Year   blowing  and    roar- 
ing. 


THE    WINDOW; 


THE    SONGS    OF    THE    WRENS, 


WORDS    WRITTEN    FOR   MUSIC. 


THE  MUSIC   BY    ARTHUR  SULLIVAN. 


Four  years  aeo  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  wnte  a  little  song--cycle,  German  fashion, 
for  him  to  exercile  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  as 
"  Orpheus  with  his  Lute,"  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  m  the  old  style,  a  puppet  whose  al- 
most only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan  s  instrument  I  am  sorry  that 
my  four-year-old  puppet  should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days ;  but 
the  music  is  now  completed,  and  I  am  bound  by  my  promise.  -rc^,^,^-^^.r 

A.   TENNYSON. 

December,  1870.  . 


ON  THE   HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly  ! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 
A  jewel,  a  jewel  dear  to  a  lover's  eye  ! 
O  is   it   the  brook,  or  a  pool,  or  her 
window-pane. 
When  the  winds  are   up  in   the 
morning? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above. 
And   winds   and   lights  and  shadows 

that  cannot  be  still. 
All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 

of  my  love, 


You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill. 
And    the  winds    are    up   in  the 
morning  ! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase  ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 
O   lights,  are   you   flying   over   her 
sweet  little  face  ? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  ave 
come  and  gone. 
When  the  winds   are   up  in   the 
morning  ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope  ! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  win- 
dow-pane of  my  dear, 


THE    WINDOiy 


459 


And  it  brightens  and   dark.ns  and 
brightens  like  my  hope. 
And  it   darkens    and    brightens  and 
darkens  like  my  fear, 
And    the   winds    are    up   in   the 
morning. 


AT  THE   WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine  ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss  ;  and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower, 
Drop  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine  ? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Drop  nie  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss  —  And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


HI. 

GONE! 

Gone  ! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year. 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and 

left  me  in  shadow  here  ! 
Gone  —  flitted  away. 
Taken  the  stars  from   the  night  and 

the  sun  from  the  day  ! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a 

storm  in  the  air  ! 
Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted 

I  know  not  where  ! 
Down  in  the  south  isa  flash  and  a  groan : 

she  is  there  !  she  is  there  ! 


WINTER. 
The  frost  is  here, 
And  fuel  is  dear. 
And  woods  are  sear, 
And  fires  burn  clear, 
And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going 
year. 


Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

You  roll  up  awav  from  the  lirht 

The  blue  wuudlouse,  and  the  plump 

dormouse. 
And  the  bees  are  slill'd,  and  the  flies 

are  kill'd. 
And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 

house, 
But  not  into  mine. 
Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 
The  woods  are  all  the  searcr, 
The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 
The  fires  are  ail  the  clearer. 
My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 
You  nave  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 

earth. 
But  not  into  mine. 


SPRING. 
Birds'  love  and  birds'  song 

Flying  here  and  there. 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

.And  you  with  gold  for  hair  ! 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

Passing  with  the  weather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love. 

To  love  once  and  forever. 
Men's  love  and  birds'  love. 

And  women's  love  and  men's  ! 
And  you  my  wren  with  a  crowu  of 
gold, 

You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens  I 
You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We '11  be  birds  of  a  feather. 
I  '11  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens. 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 


THE   LETTER. 
Whf.rk  is  another  sweet  a*  my  sweet. 

Fine  of  the  fine,  and  ^hv  of  the  thy  ? 
Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 

Dewy  blue  eye. 
Shall  I  write  to  her?  sliall  I  go' 

.Ask  her  to  marry  mc  by  and  by  ? 
Somebody  said  that  ^hc  W  viv  no  : 

Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ly  J 
Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  »hy  of  the  »by  ? 


460 


THE    U'lXDOJK 


Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

Fly! 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye  : 
Somebody  said  that  she  'd  say  no  ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ay  ! 


vn. 
NO   ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and 
the  rain  ! 
Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 

And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window- 
pane  ! 
A;id    I    may  die  but  the  grass  will 
grow, 

And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am 
gone, 

And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres. 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 
And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and 

gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and 
the  wet ! 
Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you 
blow  ! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet  ! 

T  s  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone. 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 


NO   ANSWER. 
WiKDS  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb  : 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come. 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  I 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  : 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 
Love  me  now,  you  '11  love  me  then  : 

Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 


THE  ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet  f 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet  ? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
And  loving  hands  must  part  — 
Take,  take  —  break,  break  — 
Break  —  you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 
Break,  break,  and  all 's  done. 


ixb. 

AY! 


Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day. 

Be   merry   on   earth   as  you  never 
were  merry  before, 
Be  merry  in  heaven,  O  larks,  and  far 
away. 
And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and 
one  day  more. 
Why? 
For  it 's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 
Look,  look,  how  he  flits. 

The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom, 
the  mad  little  tits  ! 
*'  Cuck-oo  !   Cuck-00  !  "  was  ever  a 
May  so  fine? 

Why  ? 
For  it 's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 
O  meiTy  the  linnet  and  dove. 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  thros- 
tle, and  have  your  desire  ! 
O  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten 
the  wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens 
with  a  crown  of  fire. 
Why  ? 
For  it 's  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


X. 

WHEN? 

Si'N  comes,  moon  comes. 


Time  slips  away. 

Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

Love,  fix  a  day. 


THE   LAST    TOCRS'AMEXT. 


4    1 


"  A  vear  hence,  a  year  hence." 

"  We  shall  botli  be  gray." 
"A  month  hence,  a  monih  hence. 

"  Far,  far  away." 
*'A  week  hence,  a  week  hence." 

*'  Ah,  tlie  long  delay." 
"  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

Voii  shall  h.x  a  day." 
"  To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 

And  that 's  an  age  away." 
Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 

And  honor  all  the  day. 


MARRIAGE  MORNING. 
Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

Vou  send  a  tl.isli  to  the  sun. 
Here  is  the  golden  close  ot'  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 


O  the  woods  and  the  meadow*. 

Woods  wjierc  wc  hid  Ironi  the  wet. 
Stiles  where  we  slay'd  to  be  kind. 

Meadows  in  whicl>  we  n»e» ! 
Light,  so  low  in  the  vale. 

Vou  Hash  and  lighten  afar: 
For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  lo\c, 

And  you  are  l)is  morning  star. 
Flash,  I  am  coming,  I  come, 

Hy  meadow  and  stile  and  wood  : 
O  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  n\\  lic.irt. 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood  I 
Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires  ? 
O    heart,    are   you   great   enough   for 
love  ? 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers. 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  miUiou  milcsi. 


THE    LAST    TOURXAMKXT. 


Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in 

his  moods 
Had  made  mock-knight   of  Arthur's 

Table  Round.  ' 
At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing 

wooJs, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

Hall 
And  toward  him  from  the  Hall,  with 

harp  in  hand. 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  carcanet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  IVistrani  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday. 
Came  rri.-<train,  saying,  "  Why  skip  ye 

so.  Sir  Fool  ?  " 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding 

once 
Far  down  beneath  a  windinpwall  of  rock 
Heard  a  child  wail.     A  stump  of  oak 

half-dead, 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of  carv- 

en  snakes 
Clutch'd  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro' 

mid-air 


r.earing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro'  the 

tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro' 

the  wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cr\- :  and  crag 

and  tree 
Scaling.  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous 

nest, 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her 

neck. 
And  all  nnscarr'd  from  beak  or  talon, 

■     brought 
A  maiden  b.ibe  ;  which  Arthur  pilving 

t<H.k, 

Then  pave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear  :  the 
Queen 

But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white 
arms 

Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly. 

And  named  it  Nestling;  so  forgot  hernelf 

A  moment,  and  her  cares;  till  ihjt 
young  life 

Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  with  mor- 
tal cold 

Past  from  her ;  and  in  time  ihe  carcanet 


462 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of 
the  child : 

So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 

'"Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead 
innocence, 

And  mak^them,  an  thou  wilt,  a  tour- 
ney-prize." 

To  whom  the  King,  "  Peace  to  thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead   nestling,  and   this  honor  after 

death. 
Following  thy  will !  but,  O  my  Queen, 

I  muse 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or 

zone, 
Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from 

the  tarn. 
And    Lancelot    won,   methought,   for 

thee  to  wear." 

"  Would  rather  ye  had  let  them  fall," 
she  cried, 
"  Plunge  and  be  lost  —  ill-fated  as  they 

were, 
A  bitterness  to  me  !  —  ye  look  amazed, 
Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 

given  — 
Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  lean- 
ing out 
Above  the  river  —  that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge  :  but  rosier  luck  will 

With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that 
they  came 

Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a  brother- 
slayer, 

But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 

Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  —  the  purest 
of  thy  knights 

May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my 
maids." 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a  great 

jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 
From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded  fields 
To  furthest  towers;  and  everywhere 

the  knights 
Arm'd  for  a  day  of  glory  before  »he 

King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 
morn 
Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage  ribb'd 


From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip-weals, 
his  nose 

Bridge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one 
hand  off, 

And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dan- 
gling lame, 

A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the  King, 
"  My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 
what  evil  beast 

Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy  face  ? 
or  fiend  ? 

Man  was  it  who  marr'd  Heaven's  im- 
age in  thee  thus .'  " 

Then,  sputtering  thro'  the  hedge  of 

splinter'd  teeth, 
Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 

blunt  stump 
Pitch-blacken'd  sawing  the  air,   said 

the  maim'd  churl, 
"  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them 

to  his  tower  — 
Some  hold  he  was  a  table-knight  of 

thine  — 
A   hundred  goodly  ones  —  the    Red 

Knight,  he  — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the 

Red  Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to 

his  tower ; 
And  when  I  call'd  upon  thy  name  as  one 
That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl, 
Maim'd   me   and   maul'd,   and  would 

outright  have  slain, 
Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a  message, 

saying,  — 
'  Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 

that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 

North, 
And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 

sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter  to 

it  —  and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his  court, 
But    mine   are  worthier,   seeing   they 

profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves  — 

and  say 
My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his 

own. 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other ;  and  say  his  hour  is 

come, 


THE   LAST   TOUR  XA  ME  XT. 


4^3 


The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long 

lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw.'  " 

Then    Arthur    turn'd    to    Kay   the 
seneschal, 
"  Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 

curiously 
Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 

whole. 
The  heathen  —  but  that  ever-climbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty 

foam. 
Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  —  and  rene- 
gades, 
Thieves,   bandits,    leavings   of  confu- 
sion, wliom 
The   wholesome   realm   is   purged  of 

otherwhere,  — 
Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 

fealty,  —  now 
Make  tlieir  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 

North. 
My  younger    knights,   new-made,   iti 

whom  your  flower 
Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds. 
Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 

which  achieved. 
The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore 

to  shore. 
But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my 

place 
Enchair'd    to  morrow,    arbitrate    the 

field  : 
For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to 

mingle  with  it. 
Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own  again  ? 
Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent :  is  it 

well  ?  " 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  It 

is  well : 
Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to 

me.  .    . 

Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is 

well." 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  fol- 

low'd  him, 
And   while    they   stood    without    the 

doors,   the   King 
Turn'd  to  him,  saving,  "  Is  it  then  so 

well  ? 


Or  mine  the  blame  thai  oft  I  »«cm  a*  he 

Of  whtim  was  written,  'a  sound  is  in 
his  ears '  — 

The  foot  tliat  loiters,  bidden  go,  —  the 
glance 

Tliat  only  seems  half-loyal  to  com- 
mand, — 

A  manner  somewhat  fall'n  from  rever- 
ence— 

Or  have  1  dream'd  the  bearing  of  our 
kniglus 

Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and  lower  ? 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  niy  realm, 
uprear'd, 

By  noble  aeedsat  one  with  noble  vows, 

From  flat  confusion  and  brute  vio- 
lences, 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no 
more?  " 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 

knights, 
Down  tl)e  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 

turn'd 
North  by  the  pate.    In  her  high  bower 

the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head, 
Watchd  her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not 

that  she  sij;h'd. 
Then    ran    across    her    memory    the 

strange  rhyme 
Of  bygone  Merlin,  "  Where  is  he  wlio 

knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes." 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tourna- 
ment, 
Bv  these  in  earnest,  those  in  mockery, 

cali'd 
The  Tournament  of  tlie  I)cad  Inno- 
cence, 
Brake  witii  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lance- 
Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 

birds  of  pre v, 
The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shnek  d. 
ar«)se,  •  .  /  u 

And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  foldi 

of  pure 
White  samite,  and  by  fountains  run- 

ninp  wine. 
Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cupi 
of  gold, 


464                                 THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 

Moved   to  the  lists,   and  there,   with 

With   ever-scattering  berries,  and  on 

slow  sad  steps 

shield 

Ascending,  fill'd  his  double-dragon'd 

A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle  — Tristram  — 

chair. 

late 

From  overseas  in  Brittany  return'd. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  gal- 
leries. 

And  marriage  with  a  princess  of  that 

realm. 

Dame,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  of 

Isolt  the  White—  Sir  Tristram  of  the 

their  Queen 

Woods  - 

White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless 

f    Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 

child, 

time  with  pain 

And  some  with  scatter'd  jewels,  like  a 

His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd 

bank 

to  shake 

Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks 

The  burthen  off  his  heart  in  one  full 

of  fire.                              • 

shock 

He  lookt  but  once,  and  veil'd  his  eyes 

With    Tristram    ev'n    to    death :   his 

again. 

'    strong  hands  gript 

And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in 

left. 

a  dream 

Until  he  groan'd  for  wrath  —  so  many 

To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 

of  those. 

roll 

That  ware  their  ladies'  colors  on  the 

Of  Autumn   thunder,  and  the  jousts 

casque. 

began  : 

Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the 

And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing 

bounds. 

leaf 

And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering 

And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and 

mockeries 

shorn  plume 

Stood,   while   he   mutter'd,    "Craven 

Went  down  it.     Sighing  weariedly,  as 

crests  !     0  shame  ! 

one 

What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 

W^ho  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  fire, 

sware  to  love  ? 

When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 

The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

away. 

more." 

Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er  the 

lists. 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave, 

He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tourna- 

the gems. 

ment 

Not  speakmg  other  word  than  "  Hast 

Broken,  but  spake  not ;  once,  a  knight 

thou  won  ? 

cast  down 

Art  thou  the  purest,  brother?    See,  the 

Before  his  tlirone  of  arbitration  cursed 

hand 

The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the 

Wherevvitii  thou  takest  this  is  red!" 

King ; 

to  whom 

And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd. 

Tristram,  half  plagued  by  Lancelot's 

And  shovv'd  hiin,  like  a  vermin  in  its 

languorous  mood, 

hole. 

Made  answer,  "  Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 

Modred,  a  narrow  face  :  anon  he  heard 

me  this 

The  voice  that  billo\V'd  round  the  bar- 

Like a  dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry 

riers  roar 

hound? 

An   ocean-sounding   welcome   to   one 

Let    be    thy    fair    Queen's    fantasy. 

knight. 

Strength  of  heart 

But  nevvly-enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest. 

And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and 

Andarmor'dal!  in  forest  green,  whereon 

skill, 

There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer. 

Are  winners    in    this   pastime    of  our 

And  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest, 

King. 

THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


My  Iiand  —  belike  the  lance  hath  dript 

upon  it  — 
No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow  ;  but  O  chief 

knight. 
Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield. 
Great  brother,  thou  nor  I  have  made 

the  world  ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in 

mine." 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery  made 
his  horse 

Caracole ;  then  bow'd  his  homage, 
bluntly  saying, 

"  Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  wor- 
ships each 

Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  be- 
hold 

This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 
here." 

Then  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 
anger'd,  one 

Murmuring  "All  courtesy  is  dead," 
and  one, 

"The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more." 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 
and  mantle  clung, 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan 
day 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  wea- 
riness : 

But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy 
dame 

Laught  shrilly,  crying,  "  Praise  the 
patient  saints. 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 
past, 

Tho'  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 
So  be  it. 

The  snowdrop  only,  flow'ring  thro'  the 
year. 

Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as 
wintertide. 

Come  —  let  us  comfort  their  sad  eyes, 
our  Queen's 

And  Lancelot's,  at  this  night's  solem- 
nity 

With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the  field." 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 
feast 
Variously  gay :  for  he  that  tells  the  talc 


Liken'd   tliem,  saying,  "as  when   au 

liour  (if  cold 
Falls  on  the  mounuin  in  midsummer 

snows, 
-And  all  the  purple  slope*  of  mountain 

flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour 

returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 

again  "  ; 
So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple 

white, 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live  grass 
Rose -campion,      bluebell,      kingcup, 

poppy,  glanced 
About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so 

loud 
Beyond  all  use,  that,  halfamazed,  the 

Queen, 
And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  lawless 

jousts, 
Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to 

her  bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 

mom, 
High  over  all  the  yellowing  Auturan- 

tide, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

hall. 
Then  Tristram  saying,  "  Why  skip  ye 

so,  Sir  Fool .'  " 
Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dago- 
net replied, 
"  Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company  ; 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much 

wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 

skip 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of 

all." 
"Ay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "but  'tis 

eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance  to."    Then  he  t wangled  on 

his  harp. 
And  while  he  twanglcd  little  Dagonet 

stood. 
Quiet  as  any  watcr-soddcn  log 
Stay'd  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a 

brook  ; 
But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 

again  ; 


466 


THE  LAST   T0URNA3IENT. 


Then  being  ask'd,  "  Why  skipt  ye  not, 

Sir  Fool  ? " 
Made  answer,   "  I  had  liefer  twenty 

years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make." 
Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip  to 

come, 
"  Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken, 

fool?" 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "  Arthur, 

the  king's  ; 
For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with 

Queen  Isolt, 
Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy 

bride, 
Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany— 
And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur's  music 

too." 
"Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy 

brains, 
Sir  Fool,"  said  Tristram,   *'I  would 

break  thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars 

were  o'er. 
The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by 

the  shell  — 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool. 
Come,  thou  art  crabb'd  and  sour  :  but 

lean  me  down. 
Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses'  ears, 
And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

"  '  Free  love  —  free  field  —  we  love 

but  while  we  may  : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is 

no  more  : 
The  leaf  isdead,  the  yearning  past  away: 
New  leaf,  new  life  —  the  days  of  frost 

are  o'er  : 
New  life,  new  love  to  suit  the  newer  day: 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 

before : 
Free  love  —  free  field  —  we  love  but 

while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-meas- 
ure to  my  tune, 
Not  stood  stockstill.     I  made  it  in  the 

woods, 
Andfounditringas  true  as  tested  gold." 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised  in 
his  hand, 


"  Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain 

yesterday 
Made  to  run  wine  ?  — but  this  had  nm 

itself 
All  out  like  a  long    life    to    a    sour 

end  — 
And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden 

cups 
To    hand    the  wine    to  whomsoever 

came  — 
The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as 

Innocence, 
In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe, 
Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence 

the  Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the 

King 
Gave  for  a  prize  —  and  one  of  those 

white  slips 
Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty 

one, 
'  Drink,  drink.   Sir  Fool,'  and  there- 
upon I  drank. 
Spat  —  pish  —  the  cup  was  gold,  the 

draught  was  mud." 
And    Tristram,    "  Was  it  muddier 

than  thy  gibes? 
Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of 

thee  ?  — 
Not    marking    how    the    knighthood 

mock  thee,  fool  — 
*  Fear  God  :  honor  the  king  —  his  one 

true  knight  — 
Sole  follower  of  the  vows  '  —  for  here 

be  they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I 

came, 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain  :  but  when 

the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot 

up 
It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out  thy 

heart ; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 

than  swine, 
A  naked  aught  —  yet  swine  I  hold  thee 

still. 
For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls,  and  find 

thee  swine." 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 
feet, 
"  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round 
my  neck 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


*M 


In  lieu  of  hers,  I  '11  hold  thou  hast 
some  touch 

Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy  pearls. 

Swine  ?  I  have  wallow'd,  I  have  wash'd 
—  the  world 

Is  flesh  and  shadow  —  I  have  had  my 
day. 

The  dirty  nurse,  E.vperience,  in  her  kind 

Hath  foiil'd  me  —  an  I  wallow'd,  then 
I  wash'd  — 

I  have  had  my  day  and  my  philoso- 
phies — 

And  thank  the  Lord  I  am  King  Ar- 
thur's fool. 

Swine,  say  ye  ?  swine,  goats,  asses, 
rams,  and  geese 

Troop'd  round  a  Paynim  harper  once, 
who  thrumm'd 

On  such  a  wire  as  musically  as  thou 

Some  such  fine  song  —  but  never  a 
king's  fool." 

And  Tristram,  "Then  were  swine, 
goats,  asses,  geese 
The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thj;  Paynim  bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out  of 
Hell  " 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball 

of  his  foot, 
"  And  whither    harp'st    thou    thine  ? 

down  !  and  thyself 
Down  !  and  two  more  :  a  helpful  harper 

thou, 
That  harpcst  downward  !    Dost  thou 

know  the  star 
We  call   the   harp  of  Arthur  up  in 

heaven  ?  " 

And  Tristram,  "Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for 

when  our  King 
Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the 

knights. 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his  name 
High  on  all  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 

heaven." 

And  Dagonet  answer'd,  "Ay,  and 

when  the  land 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  yc  set 

yourself 
To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 

wit  — 


And  whether  he  were  king  by  courtesy, 
Or  king  by  right  —  and  so  went  harp- 
ing down 
The  black  king's  highway,  got  so  C»r, 

and  grew 
So  witty,  that  ye  play'd  at  ducks  and 

drakes 
With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake 

of  fire. 
Tuwhoo  !  do  ye  see  it  ?  do  ye  see  the 

star?" 
"  Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "not  in 

open  day." 
And  Dagonet,  "  Nay,  nor  will :  I  sec 

it  and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven. 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  tlie  angels  hear, 
And  then  we  skip."     "  Lo,  fool,"  he 

said,  "  ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  :  is  the  king  thy  brother 

fool  ? " 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands 

and  shrill'd, 
"Aj'j  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the   king 

of  fools ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can 

make 
Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles, 

milk 
From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hor- 
net-combs. 
And  men  from  beasts.  —  Long  live  the 

king  of  fools!" 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 

away. 
But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonessc  and 

the  west. 
Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  tlic  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer 

eye 
For  all  that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or  perched, 

or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a  gust  hath 

blown, 
Unruflling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  re- 

turn'd  ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  fcwmcts  of  a  deer, 
Or  ev'n  a  fall'n  feather,  vantsh'd  again. 


468 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to 
lawn 

Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he 
rode.     At  length 

A  lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen-boughs 

Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken-rooft,  the 
which  himself 

Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen 
Isolt 

Against  a  shower,  dark  in  the  golden 
grove 

Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to  where 

She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge 
with  him  : 

Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cor- 
nish king, 

With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 
away. 

And  snatch'd  her  thence  ;  yet  dreading 
worse  than  shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any 
word, 

But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tris- 
tram lookt 

So  sweet,  that,  halting,  in  he  past,  and 
sank 

Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random- 
blown  ; 

But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to 
smooth 

And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the 
Queen. 

Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 

The  tongue-sters  of  the  court  she  had 
not  heard. 

But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  over- 
seas 

After  she  left  him  lonely  here?  a 
name? 

Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 

Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King  ?  "  Isolt 

Of  the  white  hands  "  they  call'd  her  : 
the  sweet  name 

Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid 
herself. 

Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 
hands  of  hers. 

And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 
thought 

He  loveu  her  also,  wedded  easily, 

But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  return'd. 


The  black-blue   Irish  hair  and  Irish 

eyes 
Had  drawn  liim  home  —  what  marvel  ? 

then  he  laid 
His  brows  upon   the  drifted  leaf  and 

dream'd. 

He  seem'd  to    pace  the   strand  of 

Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 

and  both 
Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand 

was  red. 
Then   cried  the  Breton,  "  Look,  her 

hand  is  red  ! 
These   be   no   rubies,    this   is   frozen 

blood, 
And  melts  within  her  hand  —  her  hand 

is  hot 
With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee, 

look. 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower." 
Follow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings,  and 

then 
A  whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the  child, 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil'd  her  car- 

canet. 

He   dream'd  ;    but    Arthur  with  a 

hundred  spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed, 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sallowy 

isle. 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty 

marsh 
Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  whereout 

was  roU'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their 

ease 
Among  their    harlot-brides,   an    evil 

song. 
"Lo  there,  "said  one  of  Arthur's  youth, 

for  there, 
High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the 

tower, 
A  goodly  brother  of  The  Table  Round 
Swung  by  the  neck  :  and  on  the  boughs 

a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field 

noir, 


THE   LAST   TOURXAME.WT. 


4*9 


And  therebeside  a  horn,  inflamed  the 

knights 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur. 
Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 

blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back  :  alone 

he  rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the  great 

horn. 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh  aloft 
An   ever   upward-rushing   storm    and 

cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight 

heard,  and  all. 
Even  to   tipmost  lance   and   topmost 

helm, 
In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl'd  to 

the  King, 
"  The  teeth   of  Hell  flay  bare  and 

gnash  thee  flat  !  — 
Lo  !  art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from 

the  world  — 
The  woman-worshipper?    Yea,  God's 

curse,  and  I  ! 
Slain   was   the   brother  of  my   para- 
mour 
By  a  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard 

her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware    by     the    scorpion-worm    that 

twists  in  hell. 
And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death. 
To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine    I 

fought 
And  tumbled.   Art  thou  King  ?  —  Look 

to  thy  life  !  " 

He  ended  :  Arthur  knew  the  voice  ; 

the  face 
Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the 

name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling 

in  his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign'd  not  use  of  word  or 

sword. 
But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch'd 

from  horse 
To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 
Down  from   the  causeway  heavily  to 

the  swamp 
Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 


Heard  in  dead  night  along  that  table- 
shore 
Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters 

break 
Whitening  for  half  a  league,  and  thin 

themselves 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  rooon  and 

cloud, 
From  less  and  less  to  nothinc  :  thus 

he  fell 
Head-heavy,  while  the   knights,  wh.) 

watch'd  him,  roar'd 
And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  tlie 

fall'n :  ^ 

There  trampled  out  his  face  from  being 

known, 
And  sank  his  head  in  miie,  and  slimed 

themselves  : 
Nor  heard    the    King   for    their  own 

cries,  but  sprang 
Thro'  open  doors,  and  swording  right 

and  left 
Men,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces. 

hurl'd 
The  tables  over  and   the  wines,   and 

slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman- 
yells, 
And  all  the  pavement  stream'd  with 

massacre  : 
Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired 

the  tower. 
Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the 

live  North, 
Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Aliothand  Alcor. 
Made    all   above    it,  and    a   hundred 

meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  .«w 
Come  round  by  the  Fast,  and  out  be- 
yond them  fluslj'd 
The  long,  low  dune,  andlazy-plunging. 

sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  sliore 
to  shore. 
But   in  the  heart  of  Arthur  p.iin  wj» 
lord. 

Then   out   of  Tristram  waking  the 

red  dream 
Fled  with  a  shout,  and  that  low  I.kIrc 

return'd, 
Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the 

boughs. 


470                                THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

He  whistled  his  good  war-horse  left  to 

Who  hates   thee,  as  I  him— ev'n  to 

graze 

the  death. 

Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon 
him, 

My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 

Quicken  within   me,   and  knew  that 

And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering 

thou  wert  nigh." 

leaf, 

To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  "  I  am 

Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a 

here. 

cross, 

Let  be   thy  Mark,   seeing  he  is  not 

Stay'd     him,    "  Why    weep      ye  ?  " 

thine." 

"Lord,"  she  said,  "my  man 

Hath  left  me  or  is  dead  "  ;  whereon  he 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward 

thought  — 

she  replied. 

"What  an  she  hate  me  now?    I  would 

"  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n 

not  this. 

his  own, 

What  an  she  love  me  still  ?     I  would 

But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 

not  that. 

me. 

I  know  not  what  I  would  "  —  but  said 

Scratch'd,  bitten,  blinded,  marr'd  me 

to  her,  — 

somehow  —  Mark  ? 

"  Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 

What  rights  are   his    that   dare  not 

return. 

strike  for  them  ? 

He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love 

Not  lift  a  hand— not,  tho'  he  found 

thee  not  "  — 

me  thus  ! 

Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro'  Lyon- 

But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him  ?  hence 

_  esse 

he  went 

Last  in  a  roky  hollow,  belling,  heard 

To-day  for  three  days'  hunting  — as 

The  hounds  of  Mark,   and    felt  the 

he  said  — 

goodly  hounds 

And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 

Yelp  at  his  heart,  but,   turning,  past 

Mark's  way,  my  soul !  —  but  eat  not 

and  gain'd 

thou  with  him. 

Tintagil,   half   in   sea,   and  high    on 

Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than 

land. 

fears  ; 

A  crown  of  towers. 

Nor  drink :  and  when   thou  passest 

any  wood 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 

Close  visor,   lest  an  arrow  from  the 

A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her 

bush 

hair 

Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark 

And  glossy-throated  grace,   Isolt  the 

and  hell. 

Queen. 

My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for 

And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tris- 

Mark 

tram  grind 

Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee." 

,  The  spiring  stone  that   scaled  about 

her  tower. 

So,   pluck'd   one  way  by  hate  and 

Flush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors. 

one  by  love. 

and  there 

Drain'd   of  her  force,  again  she  sat, 

Belted  his  body  with   her  white  em- 

and spake 

brace, 

To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her. 

Crying  aloud,  "  Not  Mark  —  not  Mark, 

saying, 

my  soul  ! 

"  0  hunter,  and  0  blower  of  the  horn, 

The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first :  not 

Harper,  and  thou   hast  been  a  rover 

he: 

too, 

Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals  my 

For,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shambling 

Mark, 

king. 

But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  through 

Ye  twain    had   fallen  out  about  the 

his  halls 

bride 

THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT 


471 


Of  one  —  his  name  is  out  of  me  —  the 

prize, 
If  prize   she  were  —  (what  marvel  — 

she  could  see)  — 
Thine,    friend  ;    and   ever   since    my 

craven  seeks 
To  wreck  thee  villanously  :  but,  O  Sir 

Knight, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled 

to  last?" 

And  Tristram,  "  Last  to  my  Queen 

Paramount, 
Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of 

love, 
And  loveliness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when 

first 
Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  Lyon- 

esse. 
Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt, 
"  Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 

Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled?"  and  he 

said, 
•'  Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine 

thine. 
And  thine  is  more  to  me  —  soft,  gra- 
cious, kind  — 
Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on  thy 

lips 
Most  gracious  ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n 

to  him, 
Lancelot ;    for  I  have  seen  him  wan 

enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great 

Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love." 

To  whom  Isolt, 
"Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  harp- 
er, thou 
Who  brakest  thro'  the  scruple  of  my 

bond. 
Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  saying 

to  me 
That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the 

highest. 
And  I  —  misyoked  with  such  a  want 

of  man  — 
That  I  could  hardly  sin  against  the 

lowest." 

He  answer'd,  "  O  my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 


If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leadiog- 
strings, 

If  here  bo  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  »in, 

Crown'd  warrant  liad  wc  for  the  crown- 
ing sin 

That  made  us  happy :  but  how  yc 
greet  me  —  fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  —  no  word  of  that 
fond  tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away." 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden, 
spake  Isolt, 

"  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 

To  see  thee  —  yearnings.' — ay!  for, 
hour  by  hour. 

Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 

O  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee. 

Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  ihee 

Seem'd  those  far-rolling,  westward- 
smiling  seas. 

Watched  from  this  tower.  Isolt  of 
Britain  dash'd 

Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand. 

Would  that  have  chill'd  her  bride- 
kiss?    Wedded  her? 

Fought  in  her  father's  battles  ?  wound- 
ed there  ? 

The  King  was  all  fulfill'd  with  grate- 
fulness. 

And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands, 
that  heal'd 

Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 
caress  — 

Well  —  can  I  wish  her  any  huger 
wrong 

Than  having  known  thee  ?  her  too  hast 
thou  left 

To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet 
memories  ? 

O  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 
men 

Are  noble,  I  should  hate  thcc  more 
than  love." 

And   Tristram,   fondling  her    light 

hands,  replied, 
"  Grace,  Qiicen.  for  being  loved  :  »he 

loved  me  well. 
Did  I  love  her?  the  name  at  least  I 

loved. 
Isolt  ?  —  I  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt  I 


472 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


The  night  was  dark  ;  the  true  star  set. 
Isolt  ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark 

Isolt? 

Care  not  for  her  !  patient,  and  prayer- 
ful, meek, 

Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to 
God." 

And  Isolt  answer'd,  "  Yea,  and  why 

not  I? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 

meek, 
Pale-blooded,  prayerful.     Let  me  tell 

thee  now. 
Here    one    black,   mute    midsummer 

night  I  sat 
Lonelj;,  but  musing  on  thee,  wonder- 
ing where, 
Murmuring  a  light  song  I  had  heard 

thee  sing. 
And  once  or  twice  I  spake  thy  name 

aloud. 
Then  flash'd  a  levin-brand  ;  and  near 

me  stood. 
In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a 

fiend  — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 

dark  — 
For  there  was  Mark  :  '  He  has  wedded 

her,'  he  said, 
Not  said,  but  hiss'd  it :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky. 
That  here  in   utter  dark  I   swoon'd 

away. 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,   and 

cried, 
*  I  will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 

God'  — 
And   thou   wert  lying  in  thy  new  le- 

man's  arms." 
Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with 

her  hand, 
"  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

old  and  gray. 
And  past  desire  !  "  a  saying  that  an- 

ger'd  her. 
"  '  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

thou  art  old, 
And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! '  I  need 

Him  now. 
For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught 

so  gross 


Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  malkin  in  the 

mast  ? 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying  thy  wild 

beasts  — 
Save   that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with 

a  lance 
Becomes   thee  well —  art  grown  wild 

beast  thyself. 
How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me 

even 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 
In  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away. 
Her  to  be  loved  no  more  ?    Unsay  it, 

unswear  ! 
Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak, 
Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude. 
Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 

should  suck 
Lies  like  sweet  wines  :  lie  to  me  :  I 

believe. 
Will  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there  ye 

kneel, 
And   solemnly  as   when  ye  sware  to 

him. 
The  man  of  men,  our  King  —  My  God, 

the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed 

the  King  ! 
They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and 

thro'  their  vows 
The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  : 

—  I  say. 
Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n 

when  old. 
Gray-haired,  and  past  desire,  and  in 

despair." 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up 

and  down, 
"  Vows  !  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made 

to  Mark 
More   than   I   mine?    Lied,   say  ye? 

Nay,  but  learnt. 
The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 

itself— 
My  knighthood  taught  me  this -^ ay, 

being  snapt  — 
We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 
Than  had  we  never  sworn.     I  swear 

no  more. 
I   swore   to  the  great  King,  and  am 

forsworn. 


THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


471 


For  once  —  ev'n    to    the    height  —  I 

lionor'd  him. 
'  Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? '  methoughl, 

when  first 
I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and 

beheld 
That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 

hall  — 
His  hair,  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  off  a 

brow 
Like  hillsnow  high    in    heaven,    the 

steel-blue  eyes, 
The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips 

with  light  — 
Moreover,   that  weird  legend  of  his 

birth. 
With  Merlin's  mystic  babble   about 

his  end. 
Amazed  me  :  then,  his  foot  was  on  a 

stool 
Shaped  as  a  dragon  ;  he  seem'd  to  me 

no  man. 
But   Michael  trampling   Satan  ;  so   I 

sware. 
Being  amazed  ;  but  this  went  by  —  the 

vows ! 
O  ay —  the  wholesome  madness  of  an 

hour  — 
They  served  their  use,  their  time  ;  for 

every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  himself. 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God  ; 
Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself, 
Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he 

had  done, 
And  so  the  realm  was  made  ;  but  then 

their  vows  — 
First  mainly  thro'  that  sullying  of  our 

Queen  — 
Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 

whence 
Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  him- 
self? 
Dropt  down  from  heaven  ?  wash'd  up 

from  out  the  deep  ? 
They  fail'd  to  trace  him  thro'  the  flesh 

and  blood 
Of  our  old  Kings  :    whence   then  ?  a 

doubtful  lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows. 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 

violate  : 
For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  —  the  tide 

within 


Red    with  free  chase    and    heather- 
scented  air. 
Pulsing   full   man  ;  can  Arthur  nuke 

me  pure 
As  any   maiden  child?    lock   up  my 

tongue 
From   uttering  freely  what    I    freely 

hear  ? 
Bind   me  to  one?    The  great  world 

laughs  at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 

know 
The  ptarmigan   that  whitens  ere  liis 

hour 
Wooes  his  own  end  ;  we  arc  not  angels 

here 
Nor  shall  be:  vows  —  I  am  woodman 

of  the  woods. 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yafTmgale 
Mock  them :   my  soul,   we  love  but 

while  we  may ; 
And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for 

thee. 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love." 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 

and  she  said, 
"Good  :  an  I  tum'd  away  my  love  for 

thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as 

thyself— 
For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valor    may  —  but    he   that   closes 

both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  —  taller  in- 
deed, 
Rosier,  and  comelier,  thou  —  but  say  I 

loved 
This  knightliest   of  all    knights,  and 

cast  thee  b.ick 
Thine  own  small  saw  '  We   love  but 

while  we  may,' 
Well  then,  what  answer?  " 

He  that  wlule  she  spake. 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn 

her  with. 
The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly 

touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat, 

replied, 
"  Press  this  a  little  closer,  sweet,  until  — 
Come,  I  am  hungcr'd  and  half-.ingcr*d 

— •  meat. 


474                                 THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 

Wine,  wine  —  and  I  will  love  thee  to 

"  The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our 

the  death, 

King 

And  out  beyond  into   the   dream  to 

Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 

come." 

soul. 

For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  to 

thy  peers." 

full  accord, 

"  Not  so,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  "  but 

She  rose,   and  set  before  him  all  he 

the  red  fruit 

will'd  ; 

Grown   on  a  magic   oak-tree  in  mid- 

And  after  these    had   comforted   the 

heaven. 

blood 

And  won   by  Tristram  as  a  tourney- 

With   meats  and  wines,  and  satiated 

prize. 

their  hearts  — 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for 

Now  talking  of  their  woodland  para- 

his last 

dise, 

Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto 

The  deer,   the    dews,   the    fern,   the 

thee." 

founts,  the  lawns  ; 

Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainli- 

He  rose,   he   turn'd,    and  flinging 

ness. 

round  her  neck. 

And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs 

Claspt  it :  but  while  he  bow'd  himself 

of  Mark  — 

to  lay 

Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the 

Warm  kisses  in  the  hollow  of  her  throat. 

harp,  and  sang : 

Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 

touch'd. 
Behind   hira    rose  a  shadow   and    a 

"  Ay,  ay,  0  ay  —  the  winds  that  bend 
the  brier  ! 

shriek  — 

A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the 

"  Mark's  way,"  said  Mark,  and  clove 

mere  ! 

him  thro'  the  brain. 

Ay,  ay,  0  ay  — a  star  was  my  de- 

sire. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 

And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was 

while  he  climb'd. 

near  : 

All  in  a  death-dumb  autumn-dripping 

Ay,   ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that  bow 

gloom, 

the  grass  ! 

The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd 

And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was 

and  saw 

fire,  _ 

The  great  Queen's  bower  was  dark,  — 

And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will 

about  his  feet 

pass. 

A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  ques- 

Ay,  ay,   O  ay  — the  winds  that  move 

tion'd  it. 

the  mere." 

"  What  art  thou  ?  "  and  the  voice  about 

his  feet 

Then   in  the  light's   last   glimmer 

Sent   up  an  answer,  sobbing,  "  I  am 

Tristram  show'd 

thy  fool. 

And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.     She 
cried, 

And  I  shall  never  make  thee   smile 

again." 

Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  P 

rinted  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 

3ri)e  KctJ^3Cinc  (Etiittons 

of  the  Poets  are  universally  admitted  to  excel  all  others,  in  the  points  of  com- 
pleteness, compactness,  and  cheapness,  combined  with  elegance  cf  style,  and 
beauty  of  illustration  and  appearance.  The  series  now  forms  a  choice  and 
elegant  Collection  of  Popular  Poetry,  embracing 

THE   RED-LrNi:   TENNYSON. 

THE   RED-LINE    LONGFELLOW. 

THE    RED-LINE    WHITTIER. 

THE    RED-LINE    LOWELL. 

THE    RED-LINE    SCOTT. 

THE    RED-LINE    BROWNING. 

Price  per  volume,  Cloth,  $  4.50 ;  Antique  Morocco,  $  8.00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $  6.0a 

THE    RED-LINE    LUCILE. 

Ow^i  Meredith's  Lucile,  Complete.     Price,  Cloth,  f  3.5c  ; 
Antique  Morocco,  $7.00;  Half  Calf,  $5.00. 


*♦*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.     Sent,  fost-f'aid,  on  reeeif>l  r/'/n<v  Ay  tht 
Publishers, 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  ot  any 
University  ot  Calitornia  Library 
or  to  the 
NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg,  400,  Richrmond  Field  Station 
University  ot  Calitornia 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-nnonth  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 
SENtONILL  


MAY  3  0  ?0n7 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


1 1 

r    RPDU'C:  cv  1 

1  n  Q  A  D 1 

r  c 

1 

CDME1SDD7D 

